


Too Wise To Woo Peaceably

by blarfkey



Category: Hollow Kingdom - Clare B. Dunkle
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Culture Shock, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Magic, Married Life, Slow Burn, Sort of? - Freeform, Virginity, absolute scandalized reaction to said frank discussions, bickering as foreplay, frank discussions about sex, goblin kings, good christian english women, growing sexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23192854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blarfkey/pseuds/blarfkey
Summary: "Kate had found to her relief that she had been right; being kissed by an ugly goblin was not really so bad; in fact it was one of the few things in her new life she began to enjoy."Snapshots of an unconventional marriage.
Relationships: Marak/Kate, Marak/Kate (Hollow Kingdom)
Comments: 174
Kudos: 218





	1. In Which Kate Has a Nightmare and Mark Proves Surprisingly Comforting.

**Author's Note:**

> "When she woke up screaming from horrible nightmares, he took the nightmares away, and when she lay awake, restless and anxious, he sent her to sleep with magic."

The first nightmare Kate has occurs three days into their marriage. She dreams the lake crashes into the kingdom. Marak abandons her immediately, leaving her to run the maze of corridors alone, chased by the rising waters and her own impending doom.

She wakes up screaming in the dark.

The first two nights after her marriage, Marak allows Emily to sleep with her in the bed. Never before had a wife been kidnapped with a member of her family and so there was no precedent to prevent it. She knew it was an unconventional act of kindness on his part, as loathe as she was to admit it.

But tonight she wakes up alone. Marak insisted on sleeping in the small bed on the other side of the room, tucked unobtrusively in an alcove and she didn't protest it.

It’s pitch black dark in the room, not even the moon or stars to give light, and Kate strains to hear the sound of water over the roaring of her heart beat.

Instead she hears hurried footsteps and a dim glow of mage light erupts beside her, revealing Marak and his sleep-tossed hair.

“Kate? Are you alright?” he murmurs.

“I – the lake – it was falling – I was _trapped -_ ” she gasps. Some part of her still won’t wake up, keeping her torn between two realities.

“It was a dream,” he says, sitting by her bed. He takes her shoulders hesitantly in his hands. The warmth of his skin through the cotton of her night gown grounds her. “It’s not real. The lake is held up by deep, old magic that will out live our future ancestors. It’s not going to fall.”

She knows that, but her lungs still feel as if they can’t get enough air. The only thing holding onto the edge of her sanity is the weight of his hands on her shoulders. In the dream Marak abandoned her. Seeing him with her reminds her that she’s awake.

One of his hands slips to her back and rubs slowly up and down her spine and suddenly Kate finds herself turning towards him and throwing her arms around his shoulders, pushing herself up to his chest. Marak takes her into his arms with a startled _oof_ and then resumes his slow and careful path up and down her back.

“You’re safe with me, Kate,” he whispers by her ear. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You’re safe here.”

Kate closes her eyes and leans her forehead against the side of his neck. He is so _warm._ The sound of his voice, the faint beat of his pulse, the feel of his hands, of his chest breathing beneath hers – all ground her to this moment until her heart rate settles and her lugs breathe easier.

After a long while, Marak pulls back and checks her over, taking her pulse with two fingers on the inside of her wrist.

“I’ll let you go back to sleep,” he says. “If you want, I can take your dreams from you. Or send you sleep with magic."

Her fingers tighten around his forearm, lightning fast.

“Don’t --” She licks her dry lips. “Can you stay? Tonight?”

He looks at her with an inscrutable expression. She thinks he might say no.

“If you want.”

She scoots to the middle of the bed to give him room to crawl in beside her. Marak settles in near the edge of the bed, giving her space enough for three people. Kate sleeps close enough to feel the heat of him against her back and does not dream again.

  
  


When she awakes the next morning, the spot beside her is empty. She hears rustling in the wardrobe and the faint sound of Marak humming.

Though she can only recall the dream itself in fragments, Kate remembers every detail of what came after. She blushes furiously at the thought of being so close to a man, even if he is her husband. The last time she had been held like that it was her father and she was eight years old, freshly grieving her mother.

It surprises her how kind Marak had acted last night, after his merciless pursuit of her. Of course, he had never be outright cruel and he had never physically hurt her or threatened her with violence. But neither did he treat her with that level of tenderness. She didn’t think of him capable, honestly.

She doesn’t know what to think of it.

Marak steps back into the room, dressed in plain black trousers and a dark red shirt. He stops when he notices her sitting up and awake.

“Good morning,” he says cheerfully, as if they had been married a decade. “How are you feeling?”

Kate could respond with the honesty that Goblins apparently treasure, but she can’t bring herself to override her polite upbringing.

“I’m well, thank you,” she says.

“Are you hungry? I’ll help you get ready for breakfast.”

“Do I. . . .not have ladies in waiting?” she asks cautiously.

She certainly had them at the wedding, she thinks grimly. The first two mornings Emily helped her with the buttons on the backs of her dresses. She definitely can’t do them on her own, but none of the gowns given her to are without buttons or laces.

Marak smiles and there is that glint in his eye she knows too well already. “No, unfortunately. The King’s Wife never does. But if you want, I can bat my lashes and compliment your hair as I get you dressed.”

“ _Get me dressed_?” Kate yelps. “You’re not – you can’t see me _undressed_ – it’s – it’s --”

Marak grins in delight. “Inappropriate?” he supplies wickedly and she hates him, she absolutely hates him. “But I’m your husband. Surely it’s more appropriate for me to see you in a state of undress than a stranger? Perhaps human customs are different. Tell me, Kate, in your culture do husbands not get to see their wives --”

“We are _not_ having this conversation,” she cries, fighting the urge to cover her ears.

Marak laughs. How she ever have thought him kind _or_ gentle?

“Alright, alright. What color you have in your cheeks! We’ll shelve it for another day. In the meantime, how about you get dressed as best as you are able and I will finish you up? I’ll even wait here in the bedroom, so as not to be _inappropriate_.”

He disappears in the wardrobe for a quick moment and reappears with a house robe. Face impassive but his eyes glinting, Marak shakes it out and offers it for her.

Kate looks at him suspiciously and he gives the coat another little shake for her. Finally, sighing irritably, Kate climbs out of the warm bed into the freezing room and allows Marak to drape the robe around her shoulders. It’s deliciously warm – unnaturally so. He must have done something to it.

Marak sits on the edge of the bed and looks at her with mock innocence.

“Well?” he asks. “Is it also custom to eat breakfast cold where you grew up?”

She does not dignify him with a response and stalks into the wardrobe. So far she only has about four gowns to choose from, all based on completed models in the tailor’s shop – the only thing they could make for her on such short notice. The tailor promised to meet with her personally once Kate settled into create clothes more in her taste. For now, Kate looks at the strange frocks, more extravagant than she would ever allow herself, and picks out the simplest one that covers the most skin.

She quickly shimmies out of her night gown, shivering in the cold air, and hurriedly climbs into the dress. Her hand grasps at the row of buttons done up the back, but she can’t do more than the first three and almost her entire back is exposed because Goblins are so barbaric as to sew the stays into the fabric of the gown itself rather than have proper underclothes.

It’s totally against her breeding to scream aloud her frustration like a Banshee, so Kate takes several deep calming breaths. Marak is her husband, she reminds herself. It’s not shameful that he see this much of her skin. In actuality she fears his remarks more than the exposure itself.

_You’re acting ridiculous! This is going to be your routine every morning for the rest of your life. Get a hold of yourself._

“Did you get lost?” Marak’s voice sounds faintly from the bedroom.

Kate closes her eyes.

_Good Englishwomen do not scream in anger and they certainly do not tell people to shut up._

With another deep breath, Kate steps out of the wardrobe, her hands holding up the front of her dress with an iron grip.

“There you are,” says Marak, getting up from the bed.

She stares resolutely at the wall as he steps around behind her.

“By the Fathers, Kate, you have incredible posture,” he teases.

Her governess would have been ecstatic to hear so, but Kate holds herself ramrod straight for an entirely different reason than her spinal health. 

“Now hold still and try not to scream.”

Immediately her temper flares, replacing her embarrassment. “I’m not a child!”

“No,” he agrees, staring with the bottom buttons. His knuckle brushes against her spine and Kate shivers. “You just have a child-like sense of modesty.”

Kate declines to inform him of the habit she cultivated as young toddler of throwing off her clothes and streaking through the house and into the backyard.

“Somebody has to,” she mutters instead.

Marak’s fingers make quick work of the buttons, and she notices that he does not brush up against her a second time. Once he finishes the last button at the top he turns her around for a quick once over before she can protest. She braces herself for another comment as he takes in the long sleeves and high neckline of her gown.

His eyes reach hers and he gives her a smile softer than the others.

“Beautiful,” he says.

There is no trace of mockery. Kate feels her face heating up with something other than anger.

“Though I have to say, this level of coverage is not in season,” he adds, destroying the moment.

“I’m cold,” she says shortly.

“I see."

Marak disappears back into the wardrobe and returns with a dark grey cloak, settling it around her shoulders and tying the front in a careful knot.

“There,” he says. “To breakfast?”

Kate grips the edge of the cloak. It’s softer than wool but just as warm and it smells like – it smells like – She takes a deep whiff and realizes it smells like Marak, of course it does, why is she blushing again?

“To breakfast,” she manages.

  
  


The second nightmare occurs two days later and all she can remember are fragments of Hugh Roberts scuttling after her on the ceiling, intent on eating her like a giant spider.

She doesn’t wake up screaming, but it’s a near thing.

Even so, Marak appears by her bedside less than a minute later. Ever since her first nightmare he has left her a mage light by the corner of the bed post and takes it down in the morning. Through the light of a waxing gibbous, Kate looks up into her husband’s concerned face.

Wordlessly she scoots back and wordlessly he stretches out in the space she has gifted him and holds his arms out.

Wordlessly she crawls into his embrace.

His sleep tunic feels soft under her fingers, like well-worn cotton. It smells like his cloak, something spicy and smokey and not at all terrible. She hates how soothing his heart beat sounds under her ear or the warmth of his fingers as they stroke her hair. She is steadily growing sleepier. 

“Why do you sleep elsewhere?” she asks. “This is your bed, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t think you would sleep well with a monster beside you,” he replies.

“You’re my husband.”

His hand stills for a moment. “That doesn’t make me less of a monster, at least in your eyes.”

“Hugh Roberts is a monster,” she says, shivering at the fragment of dream that pops up. “You’re not like him.”

“Thank the Fathers for small mercies.”

“I don’t want to deprive you of your own bedroom,” she insists.

“The only kings that have spent the first few nights with their freshly kidnapped wives have been especially cruel or indifferent. I know you think I’m both, but I’m not keen on following their precedent. The bed in the alcove is there for a reason. You have a lot more change to . . .accept than most women have in their marriage.”

She huffs against his chest. “You’re not especially cruel. You’re just . . . especially irritating.”

“You flatter your husband,” he says dryly. “I am at least kind enough to grant you a reprieve at night after dealing with me all day.”

“Well if you’re going to sally forth across the bedroom each night I have a bad dream, you might as well be practical about it and stay here.”

Marak does not have an immediate reply. Kate finds herself getting heavy eyed waiting for it, lulled by the soothing paths of his fingers over her hair.

“You know what I think?” he says quietly.

“Hmmm.” She is nearly asleep now.

“I think you just want me for my warmth.”

“It’s possible,” Kate mumbles and then she is gone.

  
  



	2. In Which Marak Has the Audacity Not To Kiss His Wife.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The First Kiss. Because we were robbed of it in Chapter 10.

"So what's it like?" Emily asks one afternoon, nearly two months into their new life. She's rifling through Kate's jewelry and ribbons, running her hands enviously over Kate's rack of gowns. 

"What's what like?" Kate asks, somewhat distractedly. She's admiring a diamond bracelet the Dwarves have just gifted her. It glows with a faint light that would likely grow brighter in the dark. Out of all the jewelry she’s been given, it’s the only one that is simple and practical enough for her taste.

"Kissing your husband."

Kate chokes on air. "What kind of question is that?" she gasps, scandalized.

Emily shrugs, blissfully ignorant. "Can you blame me for being curious? We're living in a fairy tale practically. Is it magical?"

Kate can feel her face heat up, especially in the cool air of her bedroom. 

"That's hardly any of your business," she says, trying to scramble what dignity she's got left. 

Emily pouts. "I'm going to have to kiss a goblin someday. I just want to know if it's terrible or not."

The diamond bracelet glows brighter for just a brief moment, as if reacting to the blush on her face. 

"Well, you'll have to ask someone else," says Kate primly. "Because I wouldn't know."

Emily gapes at her. "You haven't kissed him yet!"

"He hasn't kissed _me,_ thank you."

"Huh." Emily turns her attention back to a sage green gown sewn with citrine gems. "I thought husbands were supposed to kiss their wives. Maybe goblins are different."

Her sister's strange remarks followed Kate the rest of the day. She doesn't see her husband until dinner, which she spends subtly checking the other married couples. To her surprise, Emily is wrong. Even at a stately dinner, Kate spies random snatches of warmth and affection from the other nobles. A husband offers his wife the last bite of his dessert. A wife kisses her husband on the cheek before she excuses herself somewhere. A couple shoulder nudge each other and share laughing gazes at another goblin who continues to talk, oblivious. A man takes his wife's hand and presses a kiss against her knuckles. 

Kate feels a stab of envy strong enough to tear her gaze back to her food. (Even after nearly two months, her fingers still long for a fork and spoon.) It's everything her father taught her marriage should be like. And she will never have it for herself. 

"Everything alright, Wife?" Marak asks. 

For someone so oblivious to people's emotions, he's always perceptive to her shifting moods. 

"I have a name," she says stiffly. She doesn't like it when he calls her Wife. It feels the same as someone calling a pet "dog". It's impersonal. It's cold. 

"So you do," he says cheerfully. "Is everything alright, _Katherine_?"

Kate takes several deep, calming breaths -- a skill she never needed until she married him -- and then gives him a perfectly neutral smile.

"I'm fine, _Husband._ Thank you for asking."

"I have a name too, you know," he says and she knows he's teasing her because of the way his mouth quirks on one side.

It gives her violent, un-Christian thoughts. The goblins are lucky they don't include knives at the dinner table.

"You share it with over a hundred of your ancestors. I would hardly consider it a name."

There's a glint in his eye that she's come to dread. 

"You've got me there. To be the only Katherine in the world -- I'm quite envious."

"You are incorrigible," she says, trying her best to sound like a teacher admonishing her pupil and knowing that she probably sounds like a petulant child.

"That's the kindest thing you've said to me," he says, winking.

Kate does not dignify that with a response, returning to her dinner with all the grace she can muster. If it's one thing she's learned from Marak, it's pointless trying to have the last word with him.

If her face feels hot, it's because the food here is spicier than she's used to. 

The more she thinks about it, the more insulted she gets. For a week, she's watched other married couples at dinner and even though no one is crass enough to kiss each other on the lips, there are many subtle displays of affection. Enough, at any rate, to prove Emily's hypothesis that Goblins aren't affectionate with their wives as largely false. 

Kate can never say -- even through all his attempts to kidnap her -- that Marak treats her unkindly. He aggravates her but he is never disrespectful. He has done everything in his power to make her transition to Goblin life as smooth as possible. He does his best to comfort her when she's overwhelmed and homesick and can hardly breathe but even though he holds her quite firmly, it still feels rather perfunctory.

But he is never affectionate. He does not hug her. He does not ruffle her hair. He does not offer the last bite of his dessert. And her certainly does not kiss her -- not her forehead, not her cheeks, and not her lips. 

He respects her, he might even admire her. But it will probably never go any further than that and Kate finds, to her surprise, a bit disgusted at her own naivety. For some part of her is still holding onto that hope and desire to be cherished by a man the way her father described and she mourns the loss of it.

Ridiculous. She's a stolen bride in a long line of stolen brides and apparently _she's_ the one who's not attractive enough for her monstrous, goblin husband. The irony.

It's probably the elf blood in her. Marak has commented on her beauty on more than one occasion, but Goblins as a culture scorn beauty as a sign of weakness. Just look at the way poor Seylin is ridiculed! In fact, at the wedding ceremony, Marak only seemed excited at her elven heritage because of the magic it brought. Everything else was irrelevant. 

All that trouble he went to bring her underground just so he can be too disgusted to touch her.

The audacity! She's never been more insulted in her life.

  
  


"You know, it's been a while since our last Goblin lesson," Marak remarks one evening.

They are in his workshop, the only place besides their bedroom that Kate feels any peace. She wouldn't even be here if Marak hadn't insisted on it. So far he has done nothing but quiz her on various ingredients and their properties. Kate has done nothing but give him mulish replies. 

"Has it?" she asks, pretending to focus on the book in her hand, though she hasn't remembered a word of it all evening. Any hope she had that he would take the subtle hint not to talk to her died in the first five minutes. "I haven't noticed."

"Of course you have," he says cheerfully. "How else could you have worked so hard to avoid me? Are you ready to tell me why, give me a good scolding, or are you going to keep it in yourself until you explode?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." She grips the book tighter in her hands. 

"So implosion it is. Just try not to break anything when you do."

Kate bites the inside of her cheek until it stings to keep her face neutral. God forbid he speak to her about their conflicts like an adult! No, he just mocks her until she's had enough and lashes out. She's sick of it and it hasn't even been two months! How is she supposed to deal with it for a lifetime?

The urge to get it off her chest and clear the air wars with her fear that he will either ridicule her feelings or confirm her fears. She wrestles with it until the words on the page begin to blur, unfocused. 

Finally, she can take it no longer.

"Am I hideous to you?" she asks. 

She takes small satisfaction in the jerk of Marak's hand, carefully measuring out a dark blue powder. He looks up at her, surprised. 

"What kind of question is that?"

"Just answer it," she snaps. 

"Of course you're not hideous, Kate," he says, putting his materials down and giving her his full attention. His gaze turns suddenly sharp. "Have I implied to you otherwise?"

"No," she says. "But I know how little goblins value beauty. And there is more than one way to be hideous."

"What is this about, Kate?"

By now she can feel a dangerous flush starting up her neck. It was a moment of weakness, asking such a question, and she could never go through with it. How pathetic she would seem to him, wishing for a fairy tale. That was not the kind of story they made.

"Just forget it," she mutters, sliding off the stool. "It was a . . .passing moment of weakness and I'm quite over it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I would like to read somewhere else."

She doesn't take more than five steps before the workroom door shudders closed with magic. Anger zinging through her like a bolt of lightning, Kate whirls around. 

"What are you _doing?"_ she demands, her grip on her temper tenuous at best.

Marak folds his arms and looks at her with a calmness that makes her feel un-Christ-like violence. 

"You are not leaving this room until you finish telling me what I've done to make you so angry. You've been stewing in it for over a week. I'm not letting it continue any longer."

And just like that, the grip she has on her self control shatters. 

"You haven't kissed me!" she yells, her voice echoing against the stone walls. "It's been nearly two months and you haven't shown me a scrap of affection. And I know it's not natural to your culture because I've seen several of your subjects act differently with their spouses than we do."

Marak stares at her. It's the first time she's rendered him speechless and she's too angry to enjoy it. 

"Let me make this clear," he says slowly. "You're angry -- _livid_ , actually -- because I haven't kissed you in the seven weeks we've been married?"

"I'm livid because you went through so much trouble and -- and violence to get me here only to deem me too much of a flighty, pathetic elf to be worthy of any affection."

This time, Marak's jaw actually falls open a little. 

" _What?"_

Kate stares him down as imperiously as she can manage with their height difference. 

"You heard me," she says icily. 

"Do you hear yourself?" he counters. "Are you telling me you . . . _want_ affection?"

"What I want is a husband who doesn't act like he's too disgusted by his wife to touch her!" she declares hotly. 

"That doesn't answer my question, Kate," he says, crossing his arms. 

"A husband is supposed to kiss his wife. If they have an accord or -- or respect for each other then that's the way of things. Otherwise, I'm just of little consequence until I give you an heir and then I am of no consequence whatsoever. And I refuse to accept that!"

By now her face is flaming -- by her fury or by the scandalizing subject matter, Kate doesn't know. She wishes, desperately, that she had never opened her mouth. She would rather have the indignity of a cold husband than the humiliation of this argument.

Right now Marak is looking at her as if she's a very complicated mathematics equation. "So you want me to kiss you as a sign of respect?"

A sign of respect? She didn't quite think of it in those terms to begin with and something still feels . . .off about it. But perhaps this is as close to understanding as she is going to get from him.

"I suppose so, yes."

"You don't sound very certain," Marak says. "Are you sure you know what you want?"

"Yes, I know what I want," she says frostily. "You don't have to make me sound like a raving lunatic."

"Well, if the shoe fits, as my mother used to say."

Her fingers curl into fists. "How _dare_ you!"

"Kate you are asking -- in a very hostile manner, mind you -- your monstrous looking Goblin husband that you married against your will after several attempted kidnappings why he isn't kissing you enough. I think that in itself is enough for me to be concerned about your mental well being."

"I don't think its mad to be insulted that your husband can't bring himself to give his wife the most basic acknowledgment of affection, _Marak_."

"Where on _Earth_ are you getting the idea that I find you too disgusting or unworthy to touch?" he asks, utterly exasperated with her.

" _Because you're not kissing me_!" she practically screams at him. 

How did this become her life?

"I think I've married another mad wife," he says faintly. 

"If you think I'm so _raving,_ then why don't you tell me why you _haven't_?" she demands, arms crossed.

"Because – again – to you I am hideous monster who forced you to marry me against your will," he says slowly, like he's talking to a slow pupil -- or a mad woman. "The last thing I want to do is horrify you by forcing a physical nature to a relationship you don't even want so early into this marriage. By the Fathers, you hate me enough as it is."

"I don't hate you," she says, the sentiment slipping out with such immediacy that she cannot deny their truth.

Marak's gaze turns piercing again, as if he's trying to read her thoughts. Sometimes, despite his assurance to the contrary, she thinks he can.

"You don't?" His tone is flat. He doesn't believe her.

"You infuriate me on a daily basis, but no. I don't hate you." Kate bites at her lip, a habit she hasn't had since she was a child. "It’s un-Christ like.”

She takes a deep breath and admits something else. “In fact I -- I want to like you. I want you to like me in return. I know this is not the life I would have ever chosen for myself, but if there is hope that I could possibly be happy in it, then I . . .I want to reach for it."

To her surprise, Marak's expression softens. He takes several steps towards her until he stands close enough that she has to tilt her head to look at him. 

"If it will make you happy," he says softly, "then I will kiss you any time you want me to."

This time Kate's mouth falls open. She glares daggers at him and takes a step back. 

"If it will make me _happy?_ How dare you _insult me_ \--"

"And now we are back at square one," Marak sighs, shaking his head. "Kate, you're starting to make me question _my_ sanity."

"I don't want you to kiss me just so you can shut me up and -- and keep the peace," she says, so angry she can barely get the words out. "I want you to kiss me because you care for me and respect me and because _you want to_!"

That last reason slips out, shocking Kate as much as it shocks Marak. The silence between them is deafening.

"Are you under the impression that I don't already?" he asks finally. 

It takes a moment for the implication to sink in. 

"You -- _what?"_

Marak shakes his head at her. "This whole argument you've accused me of being disgusted by you, of thinking you unworthy because of your elven blood, of using affection to humor you so you would leave me alone."

He reaches out and slowly wraps one curl of her hair around his finger. Something kicks to life low in her stomach. The flush has crawled up her neck and all the way to the tips of her ears

"None of your worries are true," he says. "I adore everything about you."

So heavy a sentiment, and he states it with such careless nonchalance, no different than describing the weather.

"Is that so?" She stares up at him, scrutinizing his features for any sign of mockery. 

"It is." He gives the lock of her hair a gentle tug before letting it go. "Maybe one day you'll believe it."

They stand that close together, a truce slowly forming like spun glass between them. 

"So," she says, swallowing, "the only reason why you haven't kissed me yet is because you think I hate you?"

"And you think it's because I have no regard for you whatsoever beyond bearing me a child," he says.

"And we're both wrong . . .supposedly." Kate swallows again -- her mouth suddenly dry -- and keeps her chin tilted up so he doesn't think her a naive, nervous child. "So what now?"

Marak gives her another searching look before he steps closer, until she can smell his cologne and the smoky hint of his magic, until she can pick out the faint embroidery on the collar of his shirt, until it feels like he stole all the air from the room. 

"Now we have established that I have a debt to pay," he says. "And a duty I have been remiss in upholding. As the injured party, what would be your revenge?"

He sounds rather gleeful at the thought and even though the twisting riot of nerves in her gut, Kate has to fight the urge for an eye roll. 

"I don't want revenge," she murmurs. "I just want what I am owed."

"Spoken like a true English woman," he smirks. "Then I will keep it from you no longer."

Marak reaches out for her and Kate's eyes flutter closed, her heart beat suddenly pounding in her ears. His hand slips across her cheek to cup the back of her neck. His thumb brushes down the shell of her ear and his lips cover her gasp. 

She braces herself, but the press of his lips is warm, gentle, and not at all awful. It is not the kiss of a hideous goblin monster. And it is not a kiss that lasts very long. All too soon Marak pulls away, leaving Kate with a strange flutter in her chest. 

He looks down at her, eyes glittering.

"You're blushing, Kate."

"I am not," she says immediately. "It's warm in this room."

"No it's not," he says matter-of-factly and of course he's right. Underground, it's never warm, not unless Marak gives her his cloak or robe. 

She juts her chin out. "I'm not going to argue with you like petty children."

"Why not? It's so entertaining."

"Goodnight, _husband_ ," she says primly, turning around.

The door opens by magic before she can touch the handle. 

"Goodnight, wife."

His voice is soft behind her.

Later that night she is still awake when he slips into bed. The bed itself huge and Marak usually gives her enough space that she could reach her arms out and never touch him. She waits until she hears him settle in before turning on her side to face him in the dim mage light.

"Did you mean what you said?" she asks softly. 

"I always mean what I say. You'll have to be more specific."

"You said you adore everything about me."

"Oh," says Marak. "Of course."

"How is that possible? You barely know me."

He chuckles. "I know lots of things about you."

"Like what?"

"You're proud. And stubborn. Worse than I am, really, and I didn't think that was possible."

"You flatter me," she says dryly.

"You're very conscious about etiquette. You love to read, especially novels. You're practical on the outside, but inside I think you're secretly a romantic."

"And what proof do you have of that?" she demands.

"The novels," he teases. "And you quoted Shakespeare the other day."

"You know Shakespeare?"

"My father loved _The Tempest_. My mother loved _Much Ado About Nothing_."

"And you?"

" _Richard the Third_."

"A deformed, misunderstood villain using whatever methods he can to take what he thinks belongs to him. Why am I not surprised," she says. 

"He's a very compelling character," agrees Marak. 

"Is that all you know about me?" she asks. "I'm a fussy, pig-headed girl with her head stuck in a fantasy?"

"You're a brave, headstrong young woman with high standards and strong morals and an unquenchable thirst for knowledge."

Kate is thankful for the dim lighting. Marak would tease her for blushing again. 

"And you . . . like all that?"

"Oh, Kate," Marak sighs.

There's a rustling sound and his warm hand appears, slowly pushing her hair back from her forehead, his nails scraping ever so slightly against her scalp. It feels better than it ought to. His thumb brushes against her cheekbone and her eyes close.

"I have been a poor husband if you didn't know that," he says softly. "Come here."

She scoots closer to him in the bed, settling in the small cavern of his arms. He is always so warm, the heat of his hands bleeding through her nightgown as he strokes his fingers up and down her back. It's the first thing she really noticed about them after they were married and one reason why her apprehensiveness at his touch melted away the first time he held her after a nightmare.

Underground, Kate never feels warm. 

"You will never have an indifferent husband," he whispers to her, pressing his lips against her forehead. His fingers brush through the locks of her hair, slowly and gently detangling the knots.

Kate falls asleep hearing the steady beat of his heart next to her ear.


	3. In Which Kate is Scandalized by Marak's Crass Discussion about Biological Reproduction

After that evening, Marak kisses her often. In the morning when she's brushing her hair he will kiss the top of her head on his way to their closet. When she appears at meals he kisses her knuckles as he helps her into her seat. Her cheek, before she goes to sleep. And sometimes, very rarely, when she's just given him a scathing retort or when she conjugates something correctly in Goblin or when she's peering over his shoulder in his lab as he mixes together salves, he will press a soft, singular kiss to her lips. 

It is not awful.

It is not awful and Kate finds that she wouldn't mind having more than one in sequence, but she can't bear to actually voice this thought aloud. She has too much pride to ask for more than what he seems willing to give her.

But the thought of kissing Marak leads to – other thoughts. Dutiful thoughts. Goblin culture may differ starkly from the way she grew up, but Kate knows that a wife’s duty to provide an heir has not change between their kingdoms. She knows it weighs especially heavy on her husband, because the continued existence of his entire race depends on his child.

It’s a lot of pressure she tries hard not to think about and it’s a relief that Marak has not broached the subject at all since their marriage.

But it’s also disconcerting. The heir is the entire reason why she’s stuck down here and yet Marak seems content to ignore that part of their marriage entirely. Is there some kind of Goblin custom she’s unaware of? Surely they wouldn’t expect _the wife_ to initiate those duties? Kate doesn't think she could even be capable of such a thing.

As much as it pains her, she knows she has to discuss it sooner rather than later. Her life contains too many unknowns as it is.

A week after that first kiss, Kate looks over at Marak writing in a heavy, leather bound book. He does this every so often, though he artfully side-steps her pointed questions about his work. Kate assumes it must be a diary of some kind and grants him his privacy by reading on the couch by the fireplace. The evenings when Marak has a spare moment, they often come to the library and read or write in surprisingly companionable silence.

“Marak?” she asks, but her voice catches and it comes out the barest whisper. Kate clears her throat and tries again. “Marak?”

He lifts his head up, the scratching of his pen paused. “Yes?”

“I have a question for you – when you finish,” she says, proud that she barely stuttered.

He looks a little wary. They argue so often, Kate supposes she can’t blame him for it.

“I can answer it now.”

She shakes her head. “No, I can wait. It’s not important. Just . . .a curiosity.”

Marak looks at her with his head tilted to the side. “Now I’m curious.” He sets the pen down and comes over to sit next to her on the couch.

Kate can smell whiffs of the pen ink that stains his fingers. Her heart rate starts ticking up. She didn’t think she would have to have this conversation with him so close. Looking up at his curious, scrutinizing gaze, Kate feels her courage dwindle.

“Well?” he asks.

The words well up and die in her throat.

“It’s – never mind. It’s not important. I apologize for distracting you.” She swallows and looks away.

Marak turns her head back to him with gentle fingers under her chin. “Oh no. You’re blushing. Which means I can guess at the nature of your so called unimportant question and I have no intention of weathering the storm of your fury again. Come on, be an adult. Spit it out.”

“You don’t have to speak to me so patronizingly,” Kate snaps, but Marak looks at her placidly, refusing to take the bait of another argument.

“Tell me what’s bothering you.”

Her hands shake ever so slightly as she clenches them in her lap. “I just wondered if . . .Goblin marriage customs were different than humans,” she says slowly.

“You already know they are. I recall you calling our wedding a farce.” The corner of his mouth turns up at the memory.

Kate snorts. “It was a farce. I’m not talking about the wedding. I’m talking about --” she forces the words out “ – what comes after the wedding. Because – so far – nothing has happened.”

Her eyes stayed glued to her lap, unable to meet his eyes.

“I see,” says Marak and there stretches between them a long, almost excruciating moment of silence.

Then Marak turns around in his seat to face her properly and tilts her chin back up to him.

"You’re right in that the custom differs – sometimes. My father waited seven years before he consummated his marriage. I am prepared to wait as long as you need to.” His mouth curls up on one side. “I didn't know it would only take two months before you accused me of slacking on my duties."

" _Seven years_?" she asks, mind whirling.

Marak nods. "Of course he married her when she was younger than you. He wanted to give her time to grow into herself."

"Wouldn't that . . .invalidate the marriage?"

She had never, even in her limited experience and vast literature knowledge, heard of such a thing.

"Invalidate the marriage?" Marak laughs like it's the most absurd thing he's ever heard in his life. "You're wearing the most powerful magic in Goblin history. And trust me, it does not care a wit about what we have or haven't done in our bed. Or in the work room. Or here on this couch. Or where ever else your imagination can conjure."

Her face flames. "Must you talk about it so -- so crassly?!" she sputters.

"About what? Sex?" He blinks innocently at her.

" _Marak_ ," she shrieks. 

He laughs again. "What else do you want to call it? Marital congress? _Le Petit Mort_? Intercourse?"

"We don't have to call it anything!"

"We're going to have to call it something or creating our son is going to get rather awkward. . . . You do know how children are made?"

"I know how biological reproduction works," she says scathingly. 

"In theory at least," he agrees, smirking. 

She is not going to dignify that with a response. Not that she has a response. Never in her life has she had a conversation like this one. 

"By the Fathers, Kate, you're blushing all the way down your neck."

The brush of his finger behind her ear nearly sends her out out of her skin. Her breath catches in her throat as he slowly traces his fingertip down the column of her neck, chasing her flush to her collar bone.

"That's what happens you hear vulgar conversation," she says rather breathlessly. 

"Vulgar conversation? It's a natural part of life." There's a glint in his eye that she is coming to dread. "So it's safe to assume you've never really talked about . . . _biological reproduction_ before."

"Of course not! We're _civilized_."

Not that Kate had many contenders with whom to have this conversation. Her father would have never dreamed of it and her mother was gone too soon. Perhaps if she had gone to Season like her aunts had wished, they might have pulled her aside, but that never happened. And Roberts was completely out of the question.

Marak tilts his head. "So is that how human culture works? Women are never told anything about their bodies or their duties as a wife until they're married? And then when it's time to consummate the marriage, they're -- what -- confused? Terrified? Ashamed? And you consider that civilized?"

"I --"

Kate's mouth opens and then closes. 

She knows that if he were human and they had a human marriage it would have been consummated several times over by now. She'd even likely be pregnant. And the thought of _that_ , the thought of being touched by a man she barely knows, being touched in a _way_ she knows almost nothing about, makes her skin crawl. Even if it was a man she choose for herself.

But here, two months into her life as a King's Wife, Marak has yet to do anything more intimate than kiss her and she had to drag even that out of him with a ridiculous argument. He would never initiate something that would scare her and yet . . . she doesn't think he isn't interested.

_You will never have an indifferent husband_.

"No," she admits finally. "You're much kinder than what I could have gotten otherwise."

"It's not a kindness," says Marak. "It's basic respect. And not all kings had it for their wives. There are many who didn't or couldn't wait for her comfort or familiarity. But my father did and so will I." He taps her collarbone and there's that glint in his eyes. "Though judging from how much I make you blush, I don't think I'll be waiting as long as I previously thought."

As if he summoned it by magic, Kate feels her face get hot again, as much from outrage as it is from embarrassment. 

"You have too high of an opinion of yourself," she splutters. 

"Then how lucky I am to have you," he says, grinning. 

He leans down and presses his lips to her hot, hot cheek. 

"Now, if you’ll excuse, I’ll let you get back to your book.”

  
  


Days later he found her in the library again, halfway up a ladder to reach a book on the upper shelves. 

"And what is my wily wife up to this afternoon?" he asks. 

She hadn't heard him come in and nearly jumps out of her skin at the sound of his voice behind her. With a cry she flails on the ladder and loses her balance. But before she can fall, warm hands wrap around her waist to stabilize her until she regain her grip.

Marak's chuckle brushes against her shoulder blade. "Careful," he murmurs.

The hairs on the back of her neck rise and Kate becomes suddenly, excruciatingly aware of the braided knot she put her hair up in today, of the deep square cut of the dress she's wearing that leaves the entirely of her neck and collarbones exposed. 

"Thank you," she manages to choke out. Under his steady grip, Marak helps her back down the ladder. But just before she steps off the last rung and onto the floor, he holds her still, grip tightening around her hips. At this height his mouth is level with the shell of her ear.

Despite becoming gradually accustomed to the affection she demanded from him, the press of his lips on her neck, just beneath her ear, drags a startled gasp from her. Gooseflesh erupts down her arm and a strange shiver zips down her spine. Three more kisses are pressed, slowly and deliberately, further down the column of her neck until they meet the junction of her shoulder. Kate grips the sides of the ladder until she's white knuckled, biting her lip to keep from making any more obscene noise. 

"I swear you wear your hair up just to torment me," he whispers against her ear, sending another shiver down her spine. 

And then he's stepping back from her, cold air seeping in the space between them. Kate steps shakily down the last rung and then whirls around. 

"What was that?"

He grins, showing off the sharp teeth had been a breath away from her skin. "That was a husband kissing his wife's very attractive, very exposed neck. Forgive the indulgence, but I couldn't resist any longer."

She crosses her arms. "And how long have you been _resisting_?"

He tilts his head to the side. "How long have we been married?"

Her cheeks flame. "You are shameless."

"And you are beautiful. Now, what book did you want? Perhaps I can fetch it without nearly killing myself."

Kate is so taken aback by his casual compliment that she nearly forgets to bristle at the insult. "I can climb a ladder, _Ma_ _rak_. You're the one who sneaking about, startling the daylights out of me."

"And taking insidious advantage of your exposed and beautiful neck, don't forget that."

"I can't tell if you're sorry for that or not."

"I would be, if you had hated it. But I don't think you did."

"I did hate it," she says, just to be contrary, just to wipe that smug look off his face. 

He lifts his hand and trails the backs of his fingers down her cheek, the feel of them impossibly chill against the heat of her skin. 

"Liar," he says with fondness. 


	4. In Which Marak Likes The Blue Dress and Kate Lights Up A Room

Kate is supposed to meet Marak after court for her next lesson in salve making. It's one of the only things she even slightly allows herself to enjoy in this new life. Though she has seen many horrifying events due to magic, it's existence also fascinates her. She is still trying to grasp that it's real and not something out of a storybook.

She's still trying to realize her _life_ is real.

She's supposed to met Marak after he's done with court, but the tailors arrived with five new dresses for her and Kate is allowing herself a moment's vanity and indulgence to inspect them with Emily. Her first round of clothing had been done very quickly with just her barest measurements, so she would have something to wear right after her marriage. These gowns, on the other hand, were created with her taste in mind.

"These are your new clothes?" her sister asks rather flatly. "They're so plain."

She wrinkles her nose. Kate glares at her.

"Excuse me?"

“I mean, they’re not ugly,” Emily says, blissfully ignorant. “They’re just – you’re a _Queen_. Where all the diamonds and – and ruffles and _lace_. You could look like something from a fairy tale. These dresses aren’t that different from ones you’ve worn before!”

Kate rolls her eyes at Emily’s fit of fantasy. She runs her hand along a green and cream-laced gown, with adorable pintucks in the front. No, Kate has no interest in dressed like Queen Guinevere. She’s quite happy with elegant simplicity and these gowns have a sense of beautifully tailored subtlety.

“You’re just upset because of the page uniform they make you wear. You want to live vicariously through me.”

“Of course I do!” Emily blinks up at her. “Well? Are you going to try them on?”

Kate hesitates. She burns to do just that, but court will let out in just a few minutes. “I don’t think I have the time.”

“Oh come on. Just one? Surely Marak would want to see you in something new.”

Kate gives her another warning look. The last time Emily talked about Marak, it led to a spectacular and rather humiliating fight about kissing.

And Marak accused _her_ of romanticism.

“Fine. One gown,” she sighs, because she can’t fool herself anymore than she can fool her sister. “The green one.”

Emily wrinkles her nose again. “No. Not that one.”

“Please,” says Kate with barely restrained sarcasm. “Be my guest.”

She motions to the gowns and lets Emily look them over. Her sister scrutinizes each one deeply before picking out the sky blue muslin with the dark mauve ribbon tied underneath the bust. Bright white lace peaks out from underneath the fabric of her quarter sleeves.

“Alright,” she says. “But hurry. I’m going to be late.”

It takes Emily several minutes to do up the myriad buttons and Kate’s patience frays. “Well?” she asks when Emily steps away. “How does it looks?

“You’ll have to turn around first,” says Emily.

Kate obliges and blushes slightly at the grin on her sister’s face.

“Oh, Kate. That color is so beautiful on you,” she breathes. “You should throw that green one away.”

“I like that one!” Kate protests. “And you are ten years old. You’re not qualified to give me fashion advice. Now, if you’ll excuse me --”

“Wait!” Emily cries. “Your hair! We have to brush your hair, it got messed up when you changed clothes.”

“Marak is my husband. He already married me, he doesn’t care what I look like,” Kate huffs, but she sits obligingly at her dresser and lets Emily brush the fly-away-curls that came loose. Once again Kate contemplates putting her hair up every day, as married women are supposed to do, but that would confirm a reality that she isn’t quite ready for, so she leaves it to hang down her shoulders.

“Now I really am late,” she says, glancing at the clock that keeps perfect, magical time by their wardrobe.

“Alright, but we have to try the rest on later.”

Kate drops a quick kiss on Emily’s head. “Yes. Later. See you at dinner.”

She refuses to run to his library, like some kind of school girl late for lessons, so she finds Marak already seated on one of the stools, sorting through bottles when she arrives, slightly out of breath from the walking pace she set herself.

“There you are,” he says, squinting at a messily written label. “I was wondering if I would have to put out the search for you. You know, my mother --”

He looks over at her and stops abruptly. His gaze bores into her as if he were the human seeing a goblin for the first time. Kate shifts on her feet, feeling a wave of self-consciousness.

_This is what I get for trusting my ten year old sister to pick out my clothes._

“Your mother what,” she asks, clearing her throat.

Marak shakes his head slightly, snapping out of whatever train of thought had taken over. “My mother . . . . never mind. I quite forgot.”

Kate fights an eye roll and walks over to his table. “I apologize for being late. The tailor delivered my new dresses.”

“Yes, I can see that,” he says rather pointedly, picking up another bottle.

She glares at him. “Well, if it’s to your dissatisfaction you can blame my sister. She picked it out and demanded that I try it on.”

He turns to her, gaze flicking down the length of her dress, lingering ever so slightly on the ribbon just under her bust. The back of her neck prickles and the memory of him kissing her there, on the ladder, flashes through her mind. Kate fights a blush. This is ridiculous. He hasn’t even touched her. She shouldn’t even be _thinking_ about –

“It is not to my dissatisfaction,” he says before leaning in and kissing her.

Even after the handful she’s experienced, it still takes her by surprise each time he kisses her lips. There’s a hint of something – not soft about this one, though. Something barely contained. As always, he pulls away after a few seconds, but this time Kate’s mouth chases after him, pressing back up against his in a clumsy kiss of her own.

She pulls back, startled at her own audacity. What on earth possessed her to do such a thing? But before she can properly chastise herself, Marak sinks his hands into her hair and pulls her back to him, kissing her soundly.

This is not like other kisses, she thinks distantly. Those had been rather chaste, fond pecks on the mouth, done with her comfort in mind. This was something else entirely. What had been barely contained before had now burst free.

Marak kisses her with firm and unmistakable passion, cradling her face in his hands and drawing her closer until she is caged between his legs, her hands flailing uselessly until they fist tightly in the front of his shirt. He tugs her bottom lip between his and sucks on it and the noise that comes from deep with in her sounds obscene even to her own ears.

Her heart thunders in her chest, feeling as if it might burst into pieces. She can’t get enough air. This needs to stop – she doesn’t know where this is going – she doesn’t think she’s _ready_ for where this is going –

And yet there is a steadily growing _hunger_ inside, gradually stoked with every touch he gives her.

Marak wrenches his mouth from hers, and she has no control over the mewling protest that escapes her. But his lips find the spot just under her ear and he travels wet, firm kisses down the column of her neck and then, right at the junction of her shoulder, she feels his teeth scrape against the skin there.

A jolt of something powerful and unknown to her zips straight down her spine, making her squirm her thighs together. Kate gasps aloud, suddenly light-headed, one of her hands shooting out to the table to brace herself.

There’s a tinkling sound of glass breaking and then a bright flash of light and sound.

Something on the table catches fire.

Instantly Marak pushes her aside, out of danger, and shouts a spell that drenches the table in a sudden burst of magic rain.

Kate barely watches, her head spinning, trying to catch her breath in a chest that feels too tight.

“Well,” says Marak, and part of her wants to smirk at how out of breath he sounds. “I suppose not everyone gets to say they light up a room, but you do.”

Against her better judgment, she cracks a smile. “I ruined that whole table, though,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

Marak gives her that teasing grin she usually hates, though his eyes hold an edge to them not normally present. “Don’t be. I would take a hundred magical accidents if they were all started like that.”

A deep flush works it way up her neck as the full force of her shamelessness hits her. She wants to bury her face in her hands – heaven above he will never let her live this down. Marak’s gaze sharpens and he steps over to her, his hands lightly gripping her forearms.

“Are you alright?” he asks. “Did I push it too far?”

“You’re my husband. It’s your right to take whatever you want from me,” she says, eyes downcast.

She hears, rather than sees, his huff of annoyance.

“Don’t start spouting that ridiculous, human-centric idiocy again. That is not what our marriage is like and you very well know it.” He gently tips her face up to meet his gaze. “I want a real answer.”

It costs her something to say it, but she is learning to be more truthful. “No, you didn’t push it too far.”

She’s not sure if she liked it or not. It felt good, certainly, but also reminded her what it might feel to be on a ship tossed about in a storm, all sense of control gone. It frightens her a little.

“Next time I’ll be sure to keep you away from the explosive magic.” He tweaks her nose, moving his hand before she can push it away.

“I appreciate your forethought,” she says, but the sharp thrill in her abdomen from the words _next time_ robs her tone of any real heat.

“I am a very accommodating husband,” he agrees. “Now, I’m afraid our lesson will have to be canceled tonight as I figure out exactly what to do with this . . .mess. Tell M you’re free to try on all your other dresses, I won’t stop you.”

She rolls her eyes if only to cover up the stab of guilt she feels. “I caused this mess, I can help clean it up.”

He waves her away. “You’re entirely too distracting. I’ll probably end up blowing something else up trying to resist the urge to kiss you.”

Will she ever get used to how frankly he admits to such things? Kate takes a deep breath.

“Very well then,” she says. “I will see you at dinner?”

He bends down and kisses her again, but one kiss turns into two, turns into three, turns into her gasping at the way his tongue brushes against her upper lip, and then he’s abruptly pushing her away, head turned to the side.

“Yes. Exactly as I thought -- too distracting. Go on. Shoo.”

Kate leaves with as much dignity as she can muster. It’s only until she’s halfway up the stairs to her rooms that she thinks of a proper retort to the fact that she caught _him_ blushing before he turned his head from her.

  
  


The next morning, Marak walks out of their wardrobe with the blue dress in his arms. And he says nothing about it and Kate says nothing about it

But the blush falls all the way down to her neckline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ICYMI the author has a series of deleted scenes for this book and one of them shows Marak picking out the same blue dress for Kate to wear and Kate getting fed up that she has to wear the same dress all the time. 
> 
> So, you know . . .this is why. . .


	5. In Which Kate Gets spoiled By Books

With her occasional appearances at court, tours of different parts of her kingdom and the palace, visits with Emily and Seylin, Goblin lessons, Workroom lessons – Kate has little free time to herself. She strongly suspects her husband is trying his hardest to distract her in much the same way as her aunts did when her nerves started fraying (which, come to think of it, was entirely his fault). In fact, in the first month of her marriage, Marak tugged her along _everywhere_ with him, no matter what errand, as long as it was underground. Eventually she grew exhausted by it and staggered out her public appearances.

What little time to herself she does get, Kate spends it reading. After her father died, she couldn’t pick up a book for weeks. It was a relief, actually, to pack up her and Emily’s things and brave the trip to Hallow Hill because it gave her something else to do.

Now, she can’t seem to get enough. Kate devours books like a person starving, usually in bed with Marak, as he peruses his own books or letters.

It doesn’t take long to get through all the English literature books in his library. Apparently, Adele did not fancy literature the way Kate does – most of the books actually belonged to Marak’s father. Kate could almost develop a fondness for the man after death; he had much the same tastes as her own father.

After a little over two months, Kate has resorted to recycling through reading material, if only out of desperation.

One evening she catches Marak staring at her copy of _Paradise Lost_ with a furrowed brow.

“Have you read it?” she asks, a little too eagerly.

“No,” he says. “But you have. Last week, as a matter of fact.”

Kate shrugs. “Well, I’ve gone through all the books I can read in your library. Milton is always an excellent choice, you should try it.”

He gives her a flat look. “I do not have the . . .devotion to religious topics that you do.”

“Oh.” Kate tries to ignore the slight sinking feeling in her chest. “My father and I would talk about books for hours. It was our favorite thing to do."

“You would have loved my father, then,” says Marak. “He could get quite philosophical. My mother and I invented our own sign language to talk to each other when he would get on a tangent at dinner.”

“Really? Emily tried that with me once, but she changed the signs constantly and I couldn’t keep up.” Kate smiles distantly at the memory.

“Obviously I never knew my mother as a child, but I imagine she would have been a lot like your sister.” Marak looks thoughtful for a moment. “I have some men going out to London in a couple days for supplies. If you give me a list of books by tomorrow evening, I’ll make sure they stop at a bookshop as part of their trip.”

Kate gasps in delight and clutches his hand over the covers. “Oh Marak, would you really? You would do that for me?”

Her husband looks caught off guard for a moment before recovering and threading their fingers together. “Of course. It’s just a few books, Kate! It’s not like you’re asking for an elephant.”

“Well . . .” she looks down at their entwined fingers and clears her throat. “All the same, I appreciate the thought. I’ll start on that list first thing tomorrow.”

She squeezes his hand, once, and then tucks into bed and tries for sleep, but her thoughts keep racing, trying desperately to remember all the books she loved as a girl.

  
  


The next morning Kate makes a bee line for the library immediately after breakfast. If Marak makes any kind of remark at the speed in which she finishes her food and leaves, she’s too caught up in her thoughts to notice.

For the better part of two hours, Kate jots down all the titles she can remember, all her favorite fairy tales from childhood, the poetry her and her father admired, and the historical subjects she still has interest in. The first list takes up 3 sheets of parchment, so Kate spends another hour or two wrestling it down to a much less burdensome number.

It isn’t until Marak ducks inside the library that Kate realizes the hour and the rumbling in her stomach.

“I had a feeling you would still be here,” he says.

“I’m sorry, Marak,” she says, glancing at the grandfather clock. It was just past lunch. “I lost track of the time.”

“I know. That’s why I’m having lunch brought up here,” he says, leaning over her shoulder to peer at her list. “That’s quite a lot of paper.”

“I’ve been narrowing it down all morning,” says Kate, pulling out the final list. “I’ve got it categorized by titles, authors, and subjects. I know you said I could have only a few, and I really did try to narrow it down, so just tell your men they can pick at their discretion how many to get and which --”

Marak plucks the list from her hand and Kate watches in frozen outrage as he crumples it. Something that feels very like betrayal digs itself deep in her chest. Aunt Prim had harped often in their short time together that husbands did not usually approve of the level of education Kate’s father had given her. She thought Marak would have been different, but perhaps she took a mild indulgence too far for his comfort.

But before she can decide how to react, her husband squats down on his knees beside her so they are at eye level.

“Kate, you are ridiculous if you think I would ever limit you or your voracious reading appetite. Give me the first list, before you started whittling down your choices, and I will make sure they get every single one they can find.”

She stares back at him, hardly daring to believe it. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course I mean it,” he says, somewhat exasperated. “I’m not human – I don’t just say things just to say them.”

A smile, small and cautious, starts to grow. “Alright,” she says. “I’ll have to rewrite it, though. I crossed some things out. And is it okay if I put certain subjects I’m interested in and they can pick one or two books about it?”

Marak reaches out and tucks a curl behind her ear. “Kate, even if you did ask for an elephant, I would find the room and purpose for it, if it made you happy.”

Kate tries to copy this affectionate gesture, even though the untidy hair just slips past his ears again. “You’re very kind, Marak. Thank you.”

His strange grey skin darkens a little around his cheek bones. Kate raises an eyebrow.

“Are you blushing?”

Her husband shoots up to his feet. “Lunch should be here by now. I’m going to see what the delay is. Work on that list, now! I need it in a couple of hours.”

Kate smirks to herself and returns her attention to the task at hand.

  
  


It took two weeks for the books to be delivered to the library. Hulk and Bulk themselves carried it in while Marak holds court. Kate thanks the Goblins profusely and brokenly in their language and then dives into the crate with greedy hands.

She pulls each book out with reverence, crossing the titles off of the second copy of her list, until she comes across one in particular.

“ _Pride and Prejudice_ ,” she gasps, gleefully running her over the cover.

It takes great self control to overcome the urge to leave the rest of the books and dive straight into this one, but Kate takes a deep breath and sets it down before returning her attention to the rest of them.

In total, the crate held fifteen books. Kate doesn’t care that the rest are missing – this will last her quite a while and anyway, she didn’t expect to get _every_ book.

After she organizes the books into neat piles on of the Marak’s desks by subject and author, fiction from history from poetry, Kate grabs _Pride and Prejudice_ and settles onto one of the couches to read. This is where her husband finds her some time later.

“You don’t waste a minute, do you?”

Kate looks up at him striding through the doorway and beams at him, hurriedly marking her page with a scrap of her list and bounding over to him.

“Look!” she says, shoving him the cover. “I can’t believe they found it. I couldn’t remember the rest of the title, I only had ‘Pride and – ’ written on the list. My father bought me this book just a month before he died, but my copy was misplaced during our move to Hallow Hill. I never thought I’d get to read it again!”

Marak stares at her for a moment, as if stunned by her enthusiasm.

“Well I’m – very happy you’ve been reunited,” he says and it’s the first time she’s ever heard him sound stilted or awkward. “I’ll be sure to convey your gratitude to my men when they return.”

Perhaps she should reign it in a bit – he’s never seen her this excited about something because, well, there hadn’t been any reason for her excitement before.

“Yes, of course! I should write them a thank you note, or perhaps embroider a handkerchief for them.”

Marak shakes his head. “You’re their queen, Kate. Your gratitude is enough. And besides, I’m the only buying the books. If anyone gets a handkerchief, it should be me.”

Kate rolls her eyes. “Don’t be jealous, Marak. It’s very undignified for a king.”

Her husband gapes at her. “Did you just . . . _tease me_?”

She blushes, a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “Well, I’ve had a little over two months of study from a master of the skill.”

Marak grins widely, showing his small, sharp teeth, and it no longer looks quite as terrifying as the first time. “I’ve never been more proud of you, Kate. But I would hold off on those handkerchiefs for a while. This is just the first shipment. More will come in the next couple of weeks.”

Kate glances over at her neat piles. “But there’s fifteen alone in this one!”

“You had almost a hundred things on that list! You didn’t think I would settle for fifteen, especially after practically promising you an elephant?”

A great affection wells up in her. She knows how much money and trouble went into tracking these down for her, and Marak did it without a bat of an eyelash.

“They’re wonderful, Marak. Thank you,” she says softly and wraps her arms around his thick, barrel chest.

It takes a moment of hesitance before he embraces in return, as if she had surprised him. Kate breathes in the smell of him, a scent she is starting to love, and she feels his lips press against her hair.

“Oh Kate,” he sighs. “You’ll find there’s very little I will deny you. All you have to do is ask.”

She tightens her arms around him for a moment before pulling away.

“I’m going back to my reading. Would you like to join me?”

He smiles down at her. “You know, I think I will. There’s something I need to write down first.”

  
  


By the next night in bed, Kate finishes _Pride and Prejudice_ with a happy sigh. Marak looks over at her.

“Well?” he asks. “Was it all your heart desired?”

She strokes the book cover. “It was _perfect_.”

“What is it about, this perfect book?"

“It’s a love story,” she says, “so I doubt you’d be interested.”

“Tell me anyway. I might surprise you.”

Kate thinks for a moment. “Well . . .The protagonist, Elizabeth, runs into a wealthy stranger at a ball named Mr. Darcy. She overhears him insulting her looks to his friend, so she resolves to hate him. But after he insults her, he finds himself becoming more and more in love with her with each interaction. However, he’s shy and he doesn’t have a lot of social grace, so all their interactions are rather awkward, which makes her hate him even more because she thinks he’s still being snobbish about her class and her looks. And then – well a lot happens. I’m not sure I can explain it all.”

Marak smirks. “I can see why you like it. There seems to be a lot of similarities between their story and ours.”

“Like what – you and Mr. Darcy not having any manners?” she scoffs.

“The trajectory is the same – man insults woman, she hates his guts, he falls in love with her.”

She snorts softly, remember their first meeting and how utterly offensive she found him. “Perhaps, but you’re not in love with me.”

Marak raises an eyebrow. “I’m not?”

“I --” Kate studies his face, wondering if he’s teasing her again. “Of course you’re not. It’s only been two and half months. That’s hardly enough time to fall in love.”

“Really? How long did it take this Mr. Darcy?”

“That’s different! He’s a fictional character.”

Marak levels her with a flat stare. “Kate, really. After everything I’ve done and said, do you still find it hard to believe that I’m in love with you?”

“I believe you’re – attracted to me,” she stumbles. “And that you admire my personality, but that doesn’t mean you’re in love with me.”

“What other definition of romantic love is there?” he asks, somewhat exasperated.

There isn’t one. Kate knows this, just like she knows he’s not lying to her. But it’s hard to face the truth of his affections knowing she doesn’t return them. Despite their rocky history, she’s come to see Marak as a good man and he deserves someone who loves him in return.

“You know, I think I will borrow this, if you don’t mind,” he says, plucking the book from her hands. “I assume that this Darcy fellow finds some way to get Elizabeth to stop hating him and return his feelings. Perhaps it will be instructive.”

“I don’t hate you, Marak, you know that,” she says, a little beseeching.

“I do know. But you’re not in love with me.”

Kate flinches, feeling a stab of guilt. Marak cups her face, his thumb caressing her cheek bone, and the look he gives her is heart-breakingly kind.

“It’s alright, Kate. I don’t expect you to be. You’re not hurting my feelings. But sooner or later, I will get you to change your mind.”

His lips curve into that all familiar smirk and the sight of it relieves her. She offers him a fragile smile in return.

“You sound very confident in yourself,” she says.

His thumb traces down her cheek and drags itself over her bottom lip. Like a loyal steed, Kate’s blush follows after it.

“I am,” he says.

  
  


It starts off as a joke. Kate can’t quite believe she’s stooped to this, but at the same time she can’t pass up the opportunity. Not knowing where else to go, she asks Agatha for embroidery supplies.

The dwarf is only too happy to oblige her.

“I used to love needlepoint” she says, taking Kate into her personal apartments. They are fairly lavish for someone not technically a part of the high ranking families. Marak must have quite a soft spot for her. “My fingers and my eyesight are not what they used to be, so I’ve given it up in favor of knitting, but I still have lots of thread and cloth and a hoop somewhere.”

She brings Kate into a room that looks devoted to crafting. There’s a stone workbench on one corner, with jewelry making supplies laid carefully out. Another wall contains a shelf of boxed compartments. Agatha begins rifling through them.

“I had a suspicion you might be the sort to needlepoint,” she says. “The King’s mother couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes at a time, but you have patience and poise, my dear.”

Kate smiles, flattered. “I haven’t done it in quite a long time,” she says cautiously. “But I thought I would make something for my husband.”

Agatha turns back to her, eyes twinkling, and Kate realizes how romantic it must have sounded. She decides not to mention it’s purpose to tease.

“Oh how wonderful! So kind and thoughtful of you. What were you thinking of making?”

“Just a – just a handkerchief,” says Kate, blushing a little. “It’s nothing remarkable, really.”

Agatha pats her hand with gentle kindness. “He will love it all the same. I have silk and linen, which would you prefer?”

Kate ends up staying for nearly two hours. She could have left earlier, but, she found herself drawn to Agatha and her stories, particularly about Adele. Kate will never be the same kind of wife as Marak’s mother, but she craves to hear how another human girl found a way to fit into Goblin life.

Agatha gets her started on a scrap of linen and some flowers to get back into the habit, teaching Kate a few new kind of stitches that she hadn’t learned before. Then they found themselves in the sitting area, bring in a service of tea and working together. Agatha weaves a blanket with a skill Kate deeply envies – the dwarf barely has to look down at her stitching.

The afternoon ends with Kate carrying out the veritable rainbow of thread and several linen squares, all tidied in a small basket for her to transport.

“I promise I’ll come back soon,” she tells Agatha, bending down to give the old woman a kiss on her leathery cheek. “Thank you again.”

“Get on with you,” says Agatha, her face bright red. “Anything for my Marak’s wife.”

_Her Marak._ Kate’s throat tightens as she bustles down the hallway to her apartments. Marak may have lost his mother, but he still had Agatha. Kate has no one, save for her ineffectual and distant aunts, and now not even them.

In fact, the only person she has to rely on that isn’t her sister . . .is Marak himself.

  
  


Kate works on Marak’s gift for several days in secret, waiting until he goes to court or meetings with his advisers before fishing out her supplies from their hiding spot under the couch on the balcony.

At first she planned on embroidering his initials, as was standard, before she realized that Marak does not have initials. He does not have a last name. And now, neither does she, which is strange to realize.

Flowers are her next choice, and she does pretty up one square of passable violets. But then she ruins it when she stabs the needle into the pad of her thumb, coming dangerously close to biting out a swear word that would scandalize even Emily, and smearing blood in the left corner.

Sucking on her thumb, Kate gazes out at the valley twinkling below her. Somewhere down there is her husband, smoothing feathers both literally and figuratively, being a far more responsible ruler than most human kings, if history was anything to go by. The thought brings about a surprising well of fondness.

She’s not in love with Marak, but . . .she believes she can be content with him. He has just as many admirable qualities as irritating ones. He has always treated her with kindness and respect and even love. The physicality of their relationship, the part of her marriage that has brought her the most fear and trepidation, has turned into something she rather enjoys, much to her mortification.

The home he has given her is strange and sometimes frightful, but it also contains a beauty that she has never seen before.

She thinks of the future she could have had – married to Hugh Roberts because he would have chased away any other suitors, having her skin crawl every time he touched her until she died a mysterious and early death so he could inherit her land.

Kate would have a hundred lifetimes with Marak before she would _ever_ consent to that, no matter how safely human-looking her guardian had been.

Looking down at the valley, at he lake twinkling above, she draws sudden inspiration and gets to work.

  
  


The next shipment of books arrives a few days later. This time Marak gets to watch her squeal with delight as she unveils each new book. It rather reminds her of her father indulgently watching her and Emily open presents on Christmas.

“Has the beast been satisfied?” he asks as she sorts them into piles.

“Beast?” She gives him half-hearted glare. “I’m your wife!”

“And you devour books like a starving wolf,” says Marak, hand in chin. “Nothing can slack your book lust it seems.”

Kate colors at little at the terminology. “These are wonderful,” she says and then pretends to brighten with sudden recollection. “Oh! Speaking of books, I have a proper thank you for you.”

Marak looks at her with new interest. “Oh? Well, we aren’t in the workroom, so I think it’s safe for you show me your gratitude.”

It takes her a minute to work out just what kind of gratitude he’s insinuating and she rolls her eyes, though the prospect of it temps her rather surprisingly. But she didn’t shed literal blood so that Marak could accept a kiss he could have any time he wants one.

“Very funny,” she says. “Actually, I made you something.”

“You did?” His eyebrows raise in pleasant surprise.

Kate stands up and walks over to where he sits in his favorite armchair. The handkerchief sits folded delicately in her pocket. Now, faced with the prospect of actually giving it to him and facing the potential of his teasing, it suddenly seems like a silly idea.

With some trepidation she reaches into her pocket and hands it to him.

“It’s . . .a handkerchief,” she says softly.

Marak stares at it for a long moment and Kate grows more and more embarrassed. He probably doesn’t even remember the exchange and now this just seems random.

“The design is kind of – abstract. I know it’s not very good,” she rambles. “I had one with violets but I bled on it. Anyway, it’s supposed to be the view of the balcony? The dark blue threads up here are the lake and then you have the grey rock that travels down the edge here and the little yellow dots are the lights in the valley.”

She designed it in such a way that the threads only appear on the border of the cloth, leaving the middle free for use. Though it certainly looked different from anything she had ever seen in her world, the strange minimalist design seemed to fit the Goblin aesthetics and Kate had been rather proud of it when she finished.

Now it looks like a bunch of haphazard lines of varying colors and Kate wishes more than anything that she could take it back and destroy it in the fire place without him ever having seen it.

“It’s so you won’t get jealous,” she adds, falteringly.

Marak looks up at her, eyes shining. “Did you make this as a joke? To tease me?” He laughs before she can answer and gathers her into his arms, pulling her into his lap.

“This is amazing. I can’t believe you went through that much effort for me.”

“It’s a handkerchief,” she says. “You sneeze in it. It’s not that wonderful.”

“Sneeze in it!” Marak exclaims. “As if I would sully a work of art! Yes, I can definitely see the balcony view now. It’s very creative of you. And also, very thoughtful.”

He kisses her temple and Kate feels a mixture of embarrassed and flattered that she hasn’t known since she gave her father crude drawings as a child.

“Thoughtful? I did it to make fun of you,” she protests.

“And that’s what I love so much about it.”

He holds it up and examines it closer. Kate can’t bear his scrutiny, so she hides her face in the juncture of his shoulder and neck. Eventually she feels Marak put it in his shirt pocket and then wraps his arms around her. He lays his cheek on top of her head and they sit like this, her husband cradling her in his arms, for a long moment.

Kate closes her eyes, feeling safe and cared for and unspeakably grateful for it.

“I finished _Pride and Prejudice_ ,” he said after a while.

“You did?” She lifts her head up. “What did you think of it?”

He gives her a crooked smile. “Surprisingly enjoyable. Jane reminds me of you – beautiful and kind and graceful.”

Kate thinks of the time she bit Marak, all the screaming arguments she’s tried to provoke in him, the sarcastic remarks she makes occasionally, and snorts.

“I have too much of a temper to be Jane,” she says.

“An improvement, I would say.”

“What else did you think?” she asks.

They sit until dinner discussing the book, exchanging some heated opinions (Marak thinks Mr. Bingley is an incurable idiot and Kate passionately defends him), describing their favorite scenes, what they imagine Elizabeth’s married life might be like.

Kate doesn’t realize how much she missed conversations like this since her father died. Before they untangle themselves for dinner, she presses a soft, lingering kiss on his bony cheek.

“Thank you,” she says. “I know why you read it.”

“Because I wanted to see what all the fuss was about?” he offers.

She smiles. “That among other reasons. Come. Let’s go to dinner.”

  
  


As they ready for bed, Marak asks for another book recommendation and Kate happily obliges. 


	6. In Which Kate Has Dreams of an Scandalous Nature

As she grows more accustomed to goblin life, the nightmares about her new home and the events that led up to her occupation of it fade into torturous visions of the world she left behind. The smell of grass. The warmth of sunshine. Her father’s study. The stairs. They make her wake up sick with longing and sometimes only her husband’s magic can send her back to sleep.

Then comes a dream of a different sort entirely. Does it count as a nightmare if she’s only frightened at the beginning?

It starts out in the forest around the Lodge. It's dark. Lightning flashes on the horizon. Someone is chasing her, always just behind her. She can hear his heavy footsteps, his menacing laughter so close to her ear. She thinks if she can just make it to the truce circle, she’ll be safe.

But when she burst between the trees, chest heaving, he stays hot on her heels.

Marak is nothing but a looming, faceless shadow in the dark, much like he looked the first night they met. Another burst of lightning cracks against the sky and Kate catches sight of his luminous, bi-colored eyes. Without hesitation or remorse, he backs her against one of the wide oak trunks. Wind teases her hair, but his hood remains untouched. Kate's fingers scrabble for purchase against the rough bark.

He crowds against her, blocking every avenue of escape, one hand resting next to her waist, the other planted near her cheek. He is a close as he can get without touching her and her every nerve lights up, waiting for the moment when he does.

This where the fear molds into . . .something else. Her heart still races, her breath still catches, but driving it is the electric sense of anticipation.

"You can't run anymore, Kate," he says softly. "You have no where to go."

"You can't use your magic here," she whispers. Trembles. 

Marak chuckles low and deep and bends down to her ear. Her stomach flips.

"I don't need magic for what I'm going to do to you, little elf."

There's a string being pulled taut, stretching from her throat and down between her legs.

"And what's that?" she hardly dares to ask.

He cups her cheek, his gloved thumb dragging across her cheek bone. It feels like magic, the heat of his hand as he grips her hipbone, the fabric of her nightgown bunching under his fingers. It feels like a spell, the gasp of stolen breath when his lips find the spot beneath her ear. The hand on her waist drags itself slowly upward, fingers spanning across her abdomen, burning into her skin. His fingertips brush against the underside of her breast -- her breath hitches – his hand moves up and touches –

Kate wakes up gasping and shaking. To her relief, Marak sleeps deeply next to her. She scrambles out of bed, needing the cool air of their balcony to clear her head. 

It feels like her entire body is blushing. For a long moment, Kate stares up at the glow of the lake above and forces herself to think of the ingredients from Marak's workshop, the issues at court yesterday -- anything to center her mind on the present. Eventually the details of the dream fade and she returns back to bed.

It's not the only dream like that she has. 

  
  


Each time she takes refuge on the balcony, watching the dim glow of the sun from under the lake as she catches her break and forces her mind to think of mundane things. It's not that the dreams themselves were unpleasant, but her reaction to them feels wrong. The idea of him stalking her through the woods, trapping her with no way out and no way to fight against the feel of his hands on her should rightly terrify her. And reality of running from him that night in the Truce Circle _was_ terrifying.

But the only thing that scares her now is the way she wakes up, heart hammering in her chest, burning for something unknown that she refuses to examine. 

That and having her husband find out. 

  
  


Kate has to admit, the sight of the tiny twinkling lights of the Goblin kingdom below her looks rather peaceful. It cannot replace the sound of birds, the moonlight through the trees, or a soft spring breeze. But Marak's home is not the dark, drippy caves that Kate had feared. It has it's own beauty that she's starting to appreciate, against her better judgement. 

So lost in thought, Kate doesn't hear the soft footsteps of her husband until his warm arm wrap around her collarbones from behind her. 

"Can't sleep?" he says against the shell of her ear.

Kate yells and nearly jumps out of her skin. Marak immediately lets go. 

"Sorry," he says, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Are you alright?"

It occurs to her suddenly that Marak could be responsible for her dreams. All his talk of -- of _biological reproduction_ , his teasing, his sudden physical affections (that she encouraged -- no -- _demanded_ of him).Perhaps he thinks he can get his heir through the sheer power of suggestion. 

It doesn't seem like Marak to go about anything in such an underhanded way. But then again, she's only known him for barely over three months. Maybe he only brags about how much he doesn't lie so she'll believe him when he does lie.

"Are you manipulating my dreams," she demands him, crossing her arms against her chest. 

"No," he says, without a moment's hesitation. "Why? Are you having bad dreams again?"

"Not bad exactly," she says without thinking.

Marak looks at her with renewed interest and Kate could kick herself. "But not good dreams?"

She turns her back on him so he doesn't see her blush. "Its nothing. If you're not involved then it's just me being . . .silly."

The back of his hand presses gently against the side of her face. 

"Kate, you're either blushing or running a fever," he says wickedly." Just what kind of dreams are they?"

Perfect. This is exactly what she is trying to avoid. She jerks her face away from him.

"Nothing! Don't trifle yourself with it."

She stalks back towards the bedroom and he lets her.

"Alright," he says, stepping aside. 

But she can feel that the matter isn't dropped. 

The next time she wakes up gasping, Marak is already sitting up in bed. The mage light hovers by his shoulder, casting a warm pale glow over the book in his hand.

"Nightmare?" he asks. He doesn’t wait for her answer, closing the book and sets it on the nightstand. “You know, recently these nightmares sound very different from the ones you’ve had before. What happens in them?”

“None of your business,” she hisses.

“Don’t make me guess, Kate. That’ll prove even more embarrassing for you.”

She glares at him. “ _Why_ do you care so much about it? I’ve had countless bad dreams – you’ve never asked about any of those!”

Marak grins wickedly, looking every inch a villain, and something twisted part of her flutters at the sight of him.

“Because I think I know what happens in them and I very much want to be correct.”

“I will die before I let you have that satisfaction.”

It comes out much more histrionic than she intended, but Marak knows how best to rile her almost by instinct.

“So dramatic!” he exclaims, hand over his chest and it makes Kate want to believe that she has magical abilities because then she would have an effective way to strangle him. “But if I know anything about my wife, it’s how easily she’s flustered. So, what happened in this dream? Did you catch sight of my bare ankle? My collar bone? Did I stand too close behind you while I brushed your hair?”

“It was a lot more involved than that, thank you _very much_ ,” she snaps. “I’m not a grandmother clutching her pearls!”

Too late she realizes the trap he set for her. Marak looks as if Christmas had come early.

“Oh _really_?” he says. “How involved did it get, little elf?”

_I don’t need magic for what I’m about to do to you, little elf_

Instantly her face flames. She shoves the memory of it, still so vivid when most dreams fade away, deep into her mind where she will hopefully forget about it. Marak will never understand the shameless, dirty way it makes her feel to know she has such twisted desires in her. There are different rules for him.

"I can't --” she stutters, swallowing back tears, “I shouldn't _want_ –"

Marak’s teasing grin disappears at the sight of her clear distress.

"Why not?" he asks softly. 

“Because that’s not what it’s for!” she snaps.

“Oh? What is it for then?”

Kate snaps her mouth shut, desperately wishing she could somehow rewind time and prevent this entire conversation.

"Tell me what you think you know about sex,” he says.

Kate’s mouth falls open at the sheer horror of such a suggestion. “I could _never_ \--”

Marak straightens up in the bed, suddenly business-like, and looks at her with a face devoid of pity. "Yes you can. You're a grown, married woman. What were you told? Come on, I want to hear the full scope of your ignorance."

She purses her lips mulishly and glares at him. He has plenty of opportunity to mock her as it is without her giving him more on a silver platter. 

"Well, then, how about I tell you what I think you know and you correct me?"

She gives him no indication of agreement or disagreement, but Marak goes ahead anyway. 

"You told me your mother died some time ago, correct?"

It still hurts, a dull throb, like a bruise she forgot about. “Yes.”

"Judging from your manners, your level of literacy and education, and that scandalized blush you have at the mere insinuation of sex --" Kate flinches and it doesn't go unnoticed -- "you probably had a governess. And that governess probably told you that as a wife you had a duty to submit to your husband, yes?"

She stares at him. "How do you know –"

Her governess had broached the subject shortly before Kate’s eighteenth birthday. It was brutally short and ranked in Kate’s top three most horrid conversations she had ever been a part of – until this one, of course.

"And that duty was sometimes painful or uncomfortable but you would learn to endure it for the sake of bearing children,” he continues. “As a wife, you're not allowed to flat out deny your husband's advances but I'm sure she gave you myriad excuses to prolong the inevitable if you didn't feel like enduring it."

Kate swallows, the corners of her eyes burning. Her father had said that love would make a marriage beautiful. That if she found a man who adored her, nothing would hurt. But she doesn't love Marak the way her parents loved each other and the future he lays out before her sounds so cold.

"Frankly, if I were a human woman I would be horrified," he says, either unaware of her distress or uncaring. "To be taught that sex is something a man takes, that it's a chore, a sacrifice of your personal comfort and boundaries -- it's barbaric."

Barbaric – _her_ culture. As if his entirely race wasn’t built from the kidnapping of innocent women!

"And what makes you think you would be any different?" she says hotly. "If you think I'm so ignorant, then -- please -- _enlighten me_. What would you do?"

Marak's eyes go bright. Her anger always excites him. "I don't know if I can tell you without you spontaneously combusting."

"I think I can contain myself," she snaps. She won't blush like a child. He's right -- she's a married woman now and she needs to stop dancing around a subject with so great an effect on her like a child.

"Well, I will say this: my parents did not _endure_ each other and neither will we."

Marak leans closer to her, reaches out and grasps her chin so delicately with just the barest tips of his fingers. It almost tickles, the way he brushes them along the line of her jaw, across her cheek bones. Her eyes flutter closed against her better judgment.

"I can tell you're curious," he murmurs. "I can tell you like it when I touch you. Like now."

Her eyes snap open and she pulls away, biting her lip. Marak does not look disturbed.

"I can tell you're afraid of that curiosity, because you were taught you shouldn't have it, because I'm not what you want or expected, and a part of you still doesn't want to give in."

It’s impossible to hide from him and she hates that. He might assure her that he can’t actually read her thoughts, but Kate remains unconvinced.

Marak leans across the divide of their bed, until his mismatched eyes and mismatched hair leave room for little else in her vision.

"But I can promise you this: when you do give in, it won't be frightening, and it won't be painful, and you will enjoy every moment of it."

Her heart stutters in her chest at the audacity of what he's implying, at the serious, single-minded look in his eyes as he said it. No mockery. No teasing. 

The hand that had caressed her unfolds between them, palm up, a sign of surrender that he had never allowed her before their marriage. 

"Do you think you could let yourself be loved and cherished, even if it is by a hideous Goblin monster?"

There's a sardonic lilt to his words, a rueful tilt to his lips, because she knows Marak never considers himself a monster, no matter how often he says it.

It occurs to her, just then, just how much Marak _wan_ _ts_ to be a doting, devoted husband. How hard he had tried with his first wife, despite her madness. How hard he tries with her, how much her happiness weighs on him. How much he already loves her.

How much he wants to be loved.

It breaks her heart a little because if he had been human, if they had met at Season while he outraged and charmed her by turns with every dance –

He would have been perfect.

Kate places her hand in his, allowing him to thread their fingers together, marveling still at how warm his palm is against hers. 

"I could try."

He brings their joined hands together and presses a kiss against her knuckles and Kate feels the flutter of butterflies in her stomach.

Just like in the fairy tales.


	7. In Which Kate Gets Some Dearly Needed Practice

Shortly after the third full moon passes with histrionics and tears and shouting and other beastly behaviors, Kate returns to spending most of her days following Marak to court and to his errands.

When Marak had bragged that the Goblin Kingdom would adore their queen almost instantaneously, Kate thought he was exaggerating to win her over. But every where she goes, Kate receives a warm and hardy welcome. For all their monstrous appearances, Goblins have a surprisingly affectionate society.

One evening, after a week or so of tagging along with him, Marak brushes her hair out before bed. It’s become their new routine, one Kate offered to him as a consolation for acting so out of sorts during the full moon. She knows how much he has stared at and admired her hair. He probably has written pages about in the King’s Wife’s Chronicles.

But the routine becomes so soothing to her, reminding her of the nights when her mother would do the same, that she ends up loving it more so than him.

“Darling wife,” he says, dragging the comb slowly through her curls, “as much as I enjoy having you with me all day, I have to ask what the reason for it is.”

“Perhaps I miss seeing you,” she says.

He meets her eyes in the mirror. “As much as I would love to believe that, I don’t.”

She ducks her gaze down, even though she still feels the weight of his stare. “I don’t want to keep acting so horrid every time there’s a full moon. You said the first morning I wake up, happy, with plans to accomplish hasn’t happened yet and I think it’s because I don’t have a purpose here. I think I need to be busy, but I don’t know what to do with myself -- except follow you.”

“No purpose!” Marak exclaims. “You have the greatest purpose of any one here.”

She glares at him through the mirror, even though he’s too busy sectioning her hair for a braid to notice.

“Well, seeing as I don’t spend all day every day . . . getting with child, I don’t really know what else I’m supposed to do!”

Marak looks up and gives her a wicked smirk. “As much as I would _love_ to spend all day every day getting you with child --” Kate squeaks and blushes furiously, which takes away the potency of her glare “-- you have a point. I’ve been thinking of something for you, actually, these last couple of weeks.”

“Really? What is it?”

Marak can braid her hair with quick and flawless ease – apparently his mother taught him how as a child – but in the evenings he always takes his time, sliding his fingers through her locks like a merchant would appreciate fine silk.

“If you haven’t noticed, every Goblin in the high families is fluent in English.”

Kate flushes. She has noticed, especially painfully so the last few days that she’s shadowed Marak. It did not escape her notice that other Goblins would switch almost seamlessly into English when they noticed she could barely follow along their conversation in the Goblin tongue.

She had a rocky start to her Goblin lessons. For the first two weeks she flat out refused to participate. Even as she gradually realize the need for it after getting left out of court and dinner conversations, Kate did not apply herself to it with the same amount of commitment and integrity as she did learning with her father.

The new language symbolized every change about her new life that she didn’t want or ask for. It was hard not to resent it.

Now, even her sister can speak it almost fluently.

“It’s much easier for children to learn than adults,” says Marak, almost kindly, as if he could read her thoughts. “Which is why I usually try to have tutors for the pages that give lessons in English. Not since my mother have we had someone that was a native speaker. I was thinking you would be perfect for the job.”

Kate gasps and turns around, causing Marak to drop the threads of her braid.

“Yes, I would love that,” she says excitedly.

“It would mean you would have to develop a better grasp of our language if you want to communicate with them,” he warns, trying to look stern, but the way his lips twitch ruins it.

“I will,” she promises. “You’ll see I’m a fast learner.”

He bends down and kisses the top of her head. “I already know you’re a fast learner. You’re also very stubborn, which is probably why you’ve been neglecting your language studies.”

How does he know her so well after only three months?

“Now turn back around. You’ve ruined this braid. I’ll have to start all over.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re devastated,” says Kate dryly, but she obeys.

After that evening, Kate throws herself into Goblins studies, going so far as to swallow her pride and going to her sister for help and extra practice.

She cultivates a newfound appreciating for the gentle roll of the vowels into the consonants. It reminds her a little of some of the words from _The Epic of Gilgamesh_.

Though sometimes she pretends to err in her pronunciation, if only to hear Marak speak them to her. She always thought he had a beautiful voice, even that first night when everything else about him was horrid. But the Goblin accent transforms it into . . .something almost indecent.

In the evenings she and Marak play a game called “I would like.” The rules are simple – Marak asks her what she wants and she has to use as many of her newly learned vocabulary in her answers. Her responses can include something practical, such as “I would like cake with dinner tomorrow,” to the absurd, “I would like to ride a horse through court and steal Thaydar’s hat.” Marak gives each answer a serious reply, no matter how ridiculous, teaching her new Goblin phrases and coaxing a laugh or smile from her.

Tonight they lounge by the fireplace in the library, Kate stealing a pillow and sitting on the floor close to the fire.

“What would you like this evening?” Marak asks, scribbling account numbers in a ledge propped up by a larger book. He lays almost decadently on the chaise lounge across from her, the ink pot floating next to his head.

Kate finds her gaze drawn to it, this careless display of magic. Would it tip over if she pushed it or does Marak’s magic protect himself from mischief?

“ _I would like a book to read_ ,” she replies in Goblin.

He waves the ledger at her invitingly and she wrinkles her nose.

“ _No, thank you_.”

“Picky,” he says. “Fine. What else?”

“ _I would like_ _to be warm.”_

“ _I don’t think you can get any closer to the fire without climbing inside it_. What else? _”_

“ _I would like_ _to have hair made of chocolate.”_ That idea came from Emily, who had asked Seylin just that afternoon if such a thing was possible.

“ _You would be bald because I would eat it all_.”

Kate smiles. “ _I would protect it.”_

“ _By sitting by the fire?”_

Marak catches her eye and smirks and Kate swallows, blaming the proximity to the fireplace for the sudden heat on her cheeks.

“What else, my darling wife?”

She takes in the sight of him, the way his stockinged feet wags back and forth, the elegant strokes of his pen, the way his lips ever so slightly whisper the math occurring in his mind.

It has been nearly a month since that day in the workroom, where Marak’s passionate embrace caused her to light the table on fire. Since then he has kissed her, but not like that and not longer than a few seconds at most.

She pulls in a deep breath to calm the flutter in her chest.

“ _I would like a kiss_.”

The scratching of his pen stops abruptly. Marak turns his head to look at her, his eyes peering over the floating ink pot. Then he sits up, sets the ledger, book, and writing utensils on the small table next to him, and steps silently on the lush carpet to her.

He sinks to his knees before her, the firelight making his strange eyes glow.

“How scandalously forward of you,” he says, lips quirking up at the side. “What would your governess think, hearing you make such a request?”

Kate briefly closes her eyes rather than roll them at him, which only ever seems to encourage him.

“Seeing as you cannot divorce me,” she says, “I suppose you will have to live with the shame.”

Marak lifts his ink stained hand and drifts the back of it slowly down her cheek. “I thought we agreed I had none.”

Kate thinks that maybe he should start acting like it as his fingers travel across her jawline and brush against her bottom lip. His gaze never leaves hers as he trails them down her neck, tracing the disturbing spirals of the King’s Wife’s Charm. It tickles in a way she’s only just learning, her pulse fluttering under his ring finger.

“Well,” she says, clearing her throat.

“Well what?” he murmurs.

“Are you going to –“ she stumbles, unable to voice aloud in English what could be passed off as a meaningless practice exercise in Goblin.

Judging by quirk of his eyebrow, Marak knows exactly what she cannot say.

“Forward _and_ impatient! By the Fathers, Kate, you are --”

She doesn’t wait to hear whatever teasing insult he has prepared – instead she grips the front of his shirt and kisses him with all the grace of a newborn foal. Her nose jabs the side of his cheek and their teeth clack.

It’s _awful_. But at least he’s quiet.

Kate pulls away, red-faced and embarrassed. “Sorry! I’m so sorry. That was. . .horrid. I – I should go. To bed or something.”

But Marak holds fast to her shoulders, his lips quirked in a smile much kinder than his usual smirks. “How will you get better if you don’t practice?” he asks.

Her chest tightens. She swallows and stares back at his mismatched eyes, trying to put a name to the look he is giving her.

“Come here,” he whispers and pulls her into his lap. She sits sideways, her legs draped almost primly over his thighs, cradled against him with her hands pressed against his chest.

He sinks his hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head, and leans in slowly enough for her to anticipate him. Her eyes flutter closed as she accepts the gentle press of his lips.

It has little resemblance to the incident in the workshop – Marak had kissed her then with a passion that had slipped form his control, much like the explosion of glass she had caused moments later.

This evening they kiss with almost agonizing slowness, lips sliding gently, pressing softly against each other, until Kate’s head swims, her chest thudding with the weight of her heart beat. A strange warmth radiates from the pit of her stomach outward.

Marak is a glass of expensive wine and she takes long, decadent sips.

Her hands slide up his shirt and around his neck. He shivers a little underneath her as her thumb grazes his ear. It makes her want to kiss it, kiss down his neck just as he’s done to her, just to see his reaction.

But that would take her mouth away from his – an intolerable prospect.

They kiss until her lips are swollen, until her hair gets tangled around his fingers, until wrinkles appear in the crushed fabric of his shirt. They kiss until a craving alights inside her, that strange ache that comes for her after certain dreams.

Eventually Marak pulls away and rests his forehead against hers. His pulse beats like a jackrabbit underneath her fingertips. It please Kate to no end, this hint that she can affect him the same way he affects her.

“I hate to say it, but you’ll have to get up,” he says. “I think my legs are numb.”

Kate licks her swollen, feverish lips. “Oh.”

He smirks. “Don’t looks so disappointed, little elf. We’ll do it again – you could use the practice.”

The audacity of that remark has her rising her to feet in a huff. She watches Marak do the same, stumbling, joints cracking, a wince flashing across his face.

“Oh, I’m not as young as I used to be,” he groans.

“How old are you?” she asks, suddenly curious.

“Sixty one as of last summer.”

“Sixty one!” Kate gasps and then immediately covers her mouth.

Look at her! Four months with the Goblins and she’s spouting off any old thought with no regard for etiquette! She might as well be Emily.

He grins at her. “Dismayed to have married such an old man?”

“No! Of course not! I just – you don’t look your age.” Kate winces at such a pathetic attempt to rectify her mistake.

“Oh? And what age do I look?”

“I apologize,” she says, red faced. “That was shamefully rude of me and--”

Marak laughs and presses his finger to her lips. “Kate, I’m not upset. You humans find the most ridiculous things offensive. It’s my age – I’m neither ashamed nor proud of it. It just is.”

“Oh.” She can’t help but study his face in light of this new information. Her father never made it to sixty – yet his dark brown hair had had wide swathes of grey, his eyes framed by thick crows feet.

“So, if it isn’t rude, may I ask why you don’t look your age? You have no grey hair or wrinkles or . . .extra weight.”

“I look exactly my age for a goblin,” says Marak. “It’s humans whose bodies continually deteriorate. Once Goblins hit adulthood, their bodies rarely change. My body is partially fueled by my magic. Eventually that magical energy will run out and I will die. Until then, I will stay exactly like this.”

“So I’m going to be the one that grows old and withered and hideous,” says Kate dryly.

Marak chucks her under her chin. “You will never be hideous a day in your life.”

A side-effect of Marak’s propensity for insensitive bluntness is his startlingly kind and genuine compliments. Kate will never have to wonder if he flatters her for an ulterior motive, for he does not believe in meaningless platitudes.

“You’re surprisingly silver-tongued when you want to be,” she tells him.

He gives her a rare, soft half-smile. “Only for you.”


	8. In Which The King's Wife's Chronicles Get Updated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait and short update. I have another, longer one around the corner. This is just to tide you over!

“ _Good morning,”_ says Marak cheerfully as Kate struggles to open her eyes. 

The spot beside her is empty  and cold, her husband fully dressed.  How is  he always awake before her?

“Good --” Kate begins to reply and then stops herself.

Marak had said if she could get through one day replying to him only in Goblin, he would let her start her English lessons with the children. So far,all her earlier attempts did not make it past lunch. This last fortnight has had Kate throwing herself even more seriously in her studies. 

“ _Good morning_ ,” she says instead in Goblin. 

Marak smiles at her. “ _Which color dress would you like today?”_

“Not _the blue one,”_ Kate says firmly. “ _Otherwise, any dress that you want.”_

“ _But I want the blue dress_.” Marak’s eyes sparkle at her.

“ _No_.”

He mutters an insult in Goblin, a very mild one. One definitely suited for younger children. Kate tips her chin up imperiously, though she doesn’t look very intimidating sitting up in her bed in her nightgown.

“ _Excuse me_ ,” she says, doing her best to sound like a firm and unamused teacher, for she knows that Marak said it to test her. “ _That’s not very nice. Apologize at once.”_

Her husband laughs. “ _How do you know what I said?_ _I didn't teach you this word_ ,” he says.

“ _I learned it from my sister. Apologize.”_

“ _I am very sorry to have offended you_ ,” says her husband, employing very formal language she doubts her potential students know.

“ _I accept your apology.”_

Marak gets out the green dress she loves and he hates and Kate smiles as he buttons her in it. He braids her hair and lets it hang down one side. Kate touches the end of it thoughtfully, tied up in a neat little bow with one of the ribbons Thaydar bought for her in London with her books.

“ _It’s getting too long. I should cut it_.” she says and hides a smile when she hears the outraged gasp behind her.

Over the months Kate has discovered a new-found appreciation for teasing, though she indulges in it sparingly. She understands why her husband loves to rile her up so.

“ _You are never cutting your hair as long as I shall live_ ,” he swears. “ _Now if you are done being ridiculous, shall we go to breakfast?_ ”

  
  


Though sometimes it’s a struggle – and she’s very grateful for those three hours of court in the middle where she hurriedly brushes up on some vocabulary – Kate makes it all the way through dinner speaking nothing but Goblin. She even murmured a translated version of a prayer to bless her food.

It helped that Emily whispered some of the words Kate blanked on while Marak was distracted by Thaydar.

After dinner, she and her husband retire to their library. Kate dutifully chooses a book of Goblin children’s stories to read, the rudimentary vocabulary perfect for someone on her level.

“I think, Wife, that you can take a break now,” says Marak from his favorite arm chair. “You’ve done admirably all day and you’ve worked so hard. I think you’re finally ready.”

A wide smile bursts across her face, unable to be contained. Despite her elation, Kate does not want to give up. They made a deal for the entire day and she wants to rise to the challenge.

“ _I can finish the evening_ ,” she replies stubbornly.

“Oh can you now?” Marak’s eyes light up and he moves to sit next to her on the couch. “Well, darling, how would you respond to this?”

He leans in close enough for his break to tickle the hair behind her ear and whispers something rather hypnotic sounding in Goblin. She doesn’t understand most of it, but catches the words  _delight_ and  _bed_ and  _beautiful_ and suddenly her face feels very hot.

Words fail her, so Kate turns her head and kisses him. It doesn’t happen often, but Kate is starting to feel more at ease with her desire for this kind of  _practice_ enough to initiate it herself  on occasion.

Marak responds instantly and warmly, cupping her face in his hands. Kate enjoys more than she will ever let on  the sweet, gentle way he kisses her. Perhaps she is not the best judge of the sort of thing, with Marak her only experience, but it surprises her how good it feels to be kissed by him. It makes her wonder if he has had  _practice_ with anyone else. 

The thought alone startles her enough into pulling back.

“Have you done this before?” she asks him rather suspiciously.

He raises an eyebrow. “Well . . .yes. With  _you_ , Many times, I might add.”

“What about people other than myself?”

She can’t really expect him to have stayed chaste and pure for over  _sixty_ years, but the thought of him kissing someone else is . . .rather infuriating.

“A few experimental pecks as children,” says Marak thoughtfully. “But nothing like this. It’s not really appropriate for a king to kiss his subjects, you know. And my first wife – nothing could be done with her and frankly, I didn’t really try.”

He tilts his head, a smirk curling on one side of his mouth. “Why – are you  _jealous_ ?”

“ _No_ ,” Kate lies vehemently. “Just surprised at your level of skill for someone supposedly inexperienced.”

The smirk widens. “Oh, so you think I’m  _skilled_ ?”

Kate could kick herself. “I – I think I’m going back to my book,” she manages, face flaming.

Marak waves his had lazily and the book shoots off into the air and lands on the stack of others on one of the side tables. “No you’re not,” he tells her before wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his lap. “You are going to spend some more time with your  _skilled_ husband.”

His hands warm on her back, Marak leans in and captures her mouth in a kiss that Kate can’t help but melt into.

They spend the rest of the evening practicing.

  
  


Judging by the clock it’s the early hours of a Goblin morning. Kate has tossed and turned all night in her excitement and now, for the first time in their marriage, she has woken up before her husband.

She takes a moment to gaze up the rare sight of him sleeping. Marak sleeps on his side, curled towards her, his hair falling into his face and fluttering as he breathes. Kate fights the temptation to push it aside for fear of waking him and disrupting the moment.

Fondness wells up in her. The last few weeks it’s happened more and more often, these moments where she looks at him and feels something warm in her chest. Not the kind of tingling heat that happens when he kisses her or tells her scandalously flirty sentiments.

The same kind of warmth she gets when Emily splits the last piece of cake with her, or says something silly and outrageous.

She’s not sure how to categorize it, so Kate acknowledges the feeling and then pushes it aside. Climbing out of bed, she reaches for her housecoat that Marak hangs by her bedside, basking in the warming charm he placed on it. It’s perhaps the best gift she has received so far, certainly the one she appreciates the most. She will probably ignore all sense of propriety and request to be buried in it.

Humming a little to herself, Kate slips into the closet and starts flipping through the gowns. Her own governess had dressed in black and dark grey and Emily cried at the first sight of her. Kate does not want to frighten her students, but neither does she want them to take advantage of her.

“Kate?” Marak’s voice call out to her, and something about his tone makes her pause. It sound sharp, almost alarmed.

“In here,” she calls out, settling on a pale yellow dress with a higher neckline, sprigged with violets. She strips out of her nightgown, reluctantly setting her housecoat on a hanger, and climbs into the dress.

When discussing her latest set of gowns with the tailor, Kate had the option of creating dresses she could put on unaided. And indeed she did request one to try out. That first morning when she walked out of the closet fully dressed, the crestfallen reaction from Marak was unmistakable, despite how much he tried to hide it.

She steps back into the bedroom to see her husband standing in the middle of the room, barefoot, his hair askew. He looks at her in relief.

“I didn’t see you on the balcony. Did you have another dream?” he asks, his eyes glinting.

Despite the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, Kate has the sneaking suspicion that waking up and seeing her gone from bed gave her husband a small fright. But she has better manners than to tease him about it.

“No,” she says firmly, before he can mock her for it. “I have a busy day ahead. I woke up early to get ready. Help me into this dress, we don’t have a lot of time to waste.”

Marak’s eyes flicker to the clock. “You know that classes won’t start for another three hours at least?”

“Yes, but there is so much to do,” she says. “I have to survey my classroom, get my materials together, make certain I have enough supplies for the children. I was also planning on talking to the other instructors to see if they had any advice for me before I started. Now, will you please hurry? I want to finish breakfast as soon as possible.”

“As my queen commands,” says Marak dryly, but he flashes her a fond smile.

Kate dutifully turns around and allows him to  button the rest of her dress.  His  fingers brush against her spine and she fights a shiver. Marak has taken up this newfound way to tease her  in the last few weeks. She knows it’s on purpose because the one time it did happen accidentally, he had taken great pains to avoid doing so again. 

“I can put my hair up,” she says once he’s done. “You go and get dressed.”

His eyebrows raise. “My, you’re getting bossier by the minute. I think I feel rather sorry for your future pupils.”

Kate does not dignify this with a response as she heads to her vanity and he heads to his own dressing room.

Despite his teasing, Marak wastes no time in getting dressed.  He appears behind Kate in the mirror as she’s pinning stray hairs into her neat bun,  staring at her rather thoughtfully.

“Did I miss anything in the back?” she asks him, patting her bun self-consciously. 

He trails a finger almost absently around one of the coils of the King’s Wife’s Charm. “No. You’re perfect.”

“You didn’t even look at it,” she huffs.

“I don’t need to.”

He smiles at her far differently than his usual smirks of amusement or delight. This one is small and tender, almost as if he’s unaware that he’s doing it.

“Are you excited for today?” he asks her.

“Of course I am!” she says. “You know I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks. Why are you acting so strange?”

“I just think,” he says slowly, bending down to kiss her cheek, “that I need to update the King’s Wife’s Chronicles.”

Kate stares at him uncomprehendingly through the mirror for a moment before it clicks:

_The first time you were happy when you woke up in the morning, full of plans you wanted to accomplish . . ._

It has been four and a half months since they married.  As time continues to pass, Kate continues to discover new things to mourn.  In  a month it will be  her  and Emily’s first December without Christmas, without snow, without family. 

But she can’t deny that life with Marak has brought her happiness she would have never received had her life with Hugh Roberts continued.

Neither her nor her family will ever want for anything,she has a husband who is considerate of her boundaries and desires and welfare in a way uncommon of most human men.  Her sister is getting a serious education in a society that does not scorn such a thing for girls and Kate will not have to worry about Emily running off to Gretna Green with some idiot in the dead of the night, thinking only of the adventure of it and not the lasting consequences thereof. 

K ate stands up, giving herself one last check in the mirror, before turning around to face her husband. She hesitates for a moment, smoothing her hands down the front of his velvet lapels, adjusting his simple cravat. Then Kate’s hand trails down his arm and grabs his hand, bring all six fingers to her lips and pressing one lingering kiss to his knuckles. 

“Yes,” she says quietly. “I think you should.”

Marak looks at her as if she has just knocked the wind out of him. Kate’s self-conciousness returns in full force and she steps away, headed for the door, trying to control her blush. 

“Come. Let’s go to breakfast.”

Marak catches up to her and takes her hand in his. 


	9. In Which Marak Loses Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a SPICY chapter. Things get very heated. I'm still not sure what the line is between M and E rating, so if you think the rating should change, let me know in the comments. 
> 
> But be forewarned. There is smut here.

“Marak, your handwriting is absolutely atrocious.”

Kate squints down at the mess scrawled against the label of a short blue bottle, comparing the letters to the Goblin alphabet guide in her hand and not finding any equivalent.

“I thought we agreed on that when I asked you to relabel my supplies.”

“Yes, I know, I’m just . . .still astounded that anyone could read this. Who on Earth taught you to write?”

“My mother, and her handwriting was even worse than mine. My father had flawless script.”

“So why didn’t keep  _ his _ labels?”

Marak gives her a blank look. “Because  _ I  _ couldn’t read it.”

Kate huffs, rolls her eyes, and goes back to the task at hand. She has to admit that it provides good practice for her goblin, even though after two weeks of teaching her vocabulary has grown rapidly, and it’s helping her memorize the ingredients so she can help him work in the future instead of just watching him or keeping him company.

Of course, neither of them even thought of doing this until Seylin dissolved a hole in the table mixing the wrong two powders because he misread the label.

She scratches idly at the back of her neck and feels the pinpoint stare of her husband. Actually, it’s not Marak’s horrible handwriting that keeps her from her task – it’s her nerves.

Kate woke up alone that morning, heart pounding from another one of  _ those dreams _ . Just like that night in the truce circle, Marak had used the same honeyed voiced persuasion spell in her dream. Only he didn’t tell her to leave the circle. No, he used that voice to get her close enough to do unspeakable things, touch her in forbidden places, and Kate woke up with a throbbing between her thighs and a craving for touch more powerful than she has previously experienced.

If Marak hadn’t left early for a meeting with the Dwarven foreman, Kate doesn’t know what depraved thing she would have done.

And some part of her is disappointed she will never find out.

It’s this new and strange hunger in her that drove her to meet him in the workroom that afternoon dressed in the blue gown he loves, hair braided and put up to leave her neck exposed, save for two curled tendrils to frame her face.

Never before had Kate been afflicted with such a strong sense of vanity. But she realized something as she lied in bed, trying to calm her racing heart – she wants to see Marak lose control. Since the very beginning of their acquaintance, Marak has kept a tight-fisted control over his desires and actions. Everything he does and says to her is measured, planned, done with care and forethought.

And Kate appreciates that. Not even her father was as preoccupied with his wife’s well-being and happiness as Marak is with hers.

But there is a dangerous allure of what Marak would do to her if he didn’t hold himself back and Kate can no longer deny that she wants to see more than the glimpses of it that have slipped from him.

He doesn’t stop and stare in mid-sentence like he did the first time she stepped in, wearing this dress. But for the last hour, Kate has felt the back of her neck prickle with the weight of his gaze whenever she’s bent over, examining the labels. Her every nerve is alight, standing on end, attuned to his footsteps behind her, the muttering under his breath as he takes inventory, the smell of him when he passes her.

Her body is practically screaming for him to touch her and yet Kate cannot bear to voice it aloud. Despite Marak’s attitude to the contrary, Kate can’t shake off the ideas ingrained into her that a good woman services her husband’s desires – she has none of her own.

But Kate is finding that hypothesis to be very much false.

_ I can tell you’re curious. I can tell you like it when I touch you. _

The memory of that, of the feeling of his fingers down her jawline, the way his lips felt on her neck as her hands grip the ladder, makes Kate swallow hard and bite down a shiver.

She feels possessed.

“Kate, are you alright?”

His voice comes from just behind her, warm and heavy hands landing on her shoulders. Kate jumps, the pen arching off the paper and onto the table. So distracted by thoughts she shouldn’t even be having, Kate didn’t notice the sound of his footsteps carrying him close to her.

“Yes!” she snaps. “Or I would be if you didn’t sneak up on me.”

The warm weight of his hands on her shoulders gives her only a modicum of relief – she fights the urge to lean back in the stool and press her back against his chest. His thumb brushes idly up and down her neck; a shiver skates down her back.

“You’ve been in a state all afternoon,” he observes. “In an hour, you’ve gotten three labels rewritten. Tell me, what has gotten you so distracted?”

Kate lets out a shaky breath. “If I had something legible to read, it would go much faster. I don’t even think this is a real language – I think you made it up just for you.”

“All language is made up.” He lifts a hand and strokes one finger up her neck and traces the shell of her ear.”

Kate gasps, sharply, a ripple of goose flesh traveling down her arm. Then Marak leans forward, his hands shifting until they brace themselves on the table, caging her in, his chest a wall against her shoulders.

“Oh little elf,” he says into her ear and Kate shudders against him. Something dark and heavy starts coiling in her gut. “Wearing this dress, putting your hair up – don’t think I haven’t noticed what you’ve been trying to do.”

“I’m not –“ Kate swallows, her mouth dry, “I’m not doing anything. It’s in your imagination.”

With firm hands that border on the rough, Marak grabs her waist and spins her around in the stool to face him. There is a dangerous edge to his gaze that clashes with the delicate way he grasps her jaw with just his fingertips.

“I think,” he murmurs, “that you’re lying.”

“And how could you even tell?” she asks shakily. The heat of his hand on her hip burns through the flimsy layers of her dress and shift.

“Your eyes.” His thumb brushes across her bottom lip. “You’re looking at me like you want me to devour you.”

She looks down, an instinctive flinch of embarrassment. Marak tilts her chin up with one finger, forcing her eyes to lock with his. He has the same dark hunger in his gaze that she sees in her dreams.

“Do you want me to?” he whispers.

Yes.  _ Yes.  _ It must be desire that’s thrumming in her veins, lighting her nerves on fire, creating this aching need that starts in pounding heartbeat and travels south to her thighs. It’s desire that makes her greedy for every unspeakable touch that Marak will give her. Her head swims with it, her rationality drowning in it. It’s every dangerous warning she’s ever heard of about the sins of the flesh and the amount of care she should have dwindles rapidly with each second.

“Do  _ you _ ?” she breathes, licking her lips.

Marak’s eyes flicker to the movement of her tongue and she can narrow it down to this moment that sends them both over the edge.

He closes the distance between them in a desperate surge, capturing her mouth in a kiss that’s almost bruising. Kate grips the front of his shirt and kisses him back with equal fervor, her blood roaring in her ears. The fingers that had so delicately cradled her jaw were now cupping the back of head, digging into the thick braided bun of her hair.

They kiss the complete opposite of the sweet and careful kisses they had previously exchanged– desperately, messily, with a hunger that is only further deepened and never satisfied. The careful control, the languid pace of their kissing – gone. Marak’s teeth scrape across her lower lip and then his tongue dives into her mouth, covering up her gasp of surprise.

Kate proves herself an apt student, applying his every technique back to him. Her hand slips up to his hair and bury her fingers in it. She gives it an experimental tug and he groans deeply in her mouth, sending a bolt of desire straight through the core of her. Her other hand braces itself against the table, the leverage she needs to press every inch of herself against him –

The sharp tinkle of glass freezes them in their tracks. Marak tears his lips away from hers to briefly look over his shoulder before turning back to her.

“Let’s take this somewhere else,” he breathes. “Before you cause another fire.”

Kate breathes a sigh of relief – if they stopped now she’s not sure she’d survive it – that turns into a squeak of surprise when Marak scoops her up off the stool and carries her across the room. There are no couches or chaise lounges in the workshop, but a small desk sits beside the bookshelf, littered with harmless scraps of parchment and pen nibs.

He dumps her unceremoniously on top of the desk before leaning back down and kissing her breathlessly. By now every rational, decorous thought has left her head. Kate wants nothing more than to relieve the itchy, craving  _ need _ thrumming under her skin and she doesn’t care how that happens.

Marak pushes the hem of her dress and petticoat up to her knees, then spreads her legs apart so they lie on either side of his waist. Running on instinct, Kate wraps her legs around him and he pulls her by the calves until they are flushed against each other.

Something hard and hot presses against the center of her, sending a spark of pleasure that Kate has never felt before. She gasps against his mouth and bucks forward, an instinct she can’t control.

Marak garbles an English obscenity that not even her father would dare speak, one hand braced against the desk. The other hand drags itself up jerkily over her thighs, her waist, until it cups her breast. It’s heat burns through the thin layers of her dress, chemise, and short stays. The brush of this thumb across her nipple makes Kate unleash the most obscene noise she’s ever made, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the edge of the desk.

Her husband lets out a hard breath, as if she had knocked the air out of him, and then the hand on her back moves to her legs and slides under her dress and petticoat.

Kate freezes then, as his fingertips tickle her inner thigh. Marak rests his forehead against hers, breathing heavily.

“Kate,” he whispers raggedly. “Kate, tell me to stop.”

She says nothing, every nerve still and bracing for the moment when he touches her. When his fingers finally brush against her, the shock of pleasure feels like the cure to her current insanity, the answer to the craving, aching need that had been throbbing within her since that morning.

And yet it is not enough.

“Marak,” she gasps.

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

His finger traces the outline of sex and she arcs into him.

“Don’t – don’t you dare,” she chokes out.

Her husband laughs darkly against her lips. “I was hoping you would say that,” he says, before pulling away to kiss and nip down her jawline to her throat. His thumb and forefinger tweak her nipple through her clothes and Kate whimpers, biting her lip.

“Don’t hold back,” Marak breathes against her ear. “You make the most beautiful sounds.”

An obedient wife, Kate follows his instructions to the letter. She doesn’t hide the sharp intake of breath when he tugs her sleeve down and dips his hand past her neckline to caress her, his hand impossibly warm even on her flushed skin.

She doesn’t hide her moan when his lips kiss and nibble and suck a path down her neck, past her collarbones, to her freshly exposed breast.

She doesn’t hide the pitiful whine of need that comes when he strokes her with a calloused thumb under her dress in slow, careful circles.

And she doesn’t hide her sudden wordless cry when his lips close around her nipple while one of his fingers slides gently through her impossibly slick entrance, or the way her head tosses back, or the sound of her nails digging into the wood of the desk.

Marak holds her steady, his other arm wrapping around her waist to support her back with a firm, splayed hand.

“Fathers, Kate, you are wet,” he groans.

“What does – that mean?”

He looks up at her to smirk. “It means you like what I’m doing very much.”

Kate closes her eyes, too focused on the sensation of him  _ inside her _ to argue. It’s the answer to the craving need tingling under her skin, the ache for something to fill her, and it both alleviates and exasperates it. Every inch of her sex is throbbing, begging for something she doesn’t have a name for yet.

All she knows that if he stops, she might very well expire.

But her husband has no intentions of stopping. Instead, he assaults her senses without mercy, his mouth on her breast, his finger slowly dragging itself in and out of her while his thumb presses soft circles into a bundle of nerves she had never previously paid attention to.

The only thing she can do is cling to him, one hand fisted in his ridiculous hair, the other gripping the material of the back of his shirt and waistcoat for dear life, until a wave of pleasure builds and builds until it crests and breaks over her.

Kate does not shout but only because the feeling has robbed her of any air. Instead she clings and shudders against him, gasping brokenly until it recedes.

Marak lifts his head and kisses her with all the soft sweetness they didn’t have when they started.

“Oh Kate, you are glorious,” he whispers against her lips.

He slides his finger out carefully, but Kate still gasps at the feeling of it. She catches a flash of it glistening with something – with  _ her –  _ before he wipes unceremoniously on his trousers. Light-headed and dazed, Kate can only sit there while her husband carefully returns her modesty, adjusting the front of her dress and stepping to the side so he can tug the hem of her dress back down. Then he cradles her against his chest, taking the pins down from her hair and detangling her braid with his fingers.

“What did you do to me?” she murmurs.

“I’m assuming in your disturbing and inaccurate sexual education, they never mentioned that women could experience the same kind of pleasure as men?”

“Those kinds of women are . . .vulgar.”

Marak huffs a laugh. “Well, I suppose you have joined their number. Tell me, Kate, do you feel vulgar?”

She should feel vulgar. She should feel licentious and depraved and all other things she had been warned not to be.

She does not.

“I feel . . .sleepy,” she says instead, burying her face in his neck, breathing in his scent.

Sleepy and sated and  _ relieved. _

Marak’s chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Typically, that is supposed to be the husband’s reaction.”

The husband’s – Kate’s head shoots up to stare at him, sudden unease coming to life in her gut.

“What – what about you?”

His eyebrow raises. “What about me?”

“Your – your pleasure,” she stumbles.

Ten minutes ago, caught in the storm of her desire, Kate would have let him do anything to her. But now, the storm has quieted down and all she wants is to be held, just like this, while Marak plays with her hair.

Marak pushes a stray lock behind her ear. “I got what I wanted.”

Relief sweeps through her, tinged with guilt. “But I thought men always wanted --”

“Sometimes,” he says, interrupting her, “what a man wants is to see his beautiful wife in his favorite dress trying – with very little subtlety – to be seductive because she can’t voice aloud her own desires. And sometimes what a man wants is to give his beautiful wife all the pleasure she doesn’t know how to ask for because he can’t quite believe she actually wants him to touch her.”

There is a touch of longing in his voice that breaks Kate’s heart a little. She reaches out and brushes the backs of her fingertips down his cheek, like he has done so many times for her. His skin is warm under her touch, a shade darker than usual.

A blush.

A smile curves across her lips and she’s sorely tempted to tease him. But this moment feels fragile.

“What is it about this dress that you love so much?” she asks instead.

“Well . . .the neckline is rather convenient.”

Her own cheeks flush under the memory of his hands and mouth there only minutes ago.

“Don’t tell me that’s it!”

He chuckles again. “No, it’s not. Well . . .not until today.” He toys with the lace that peeks out underneath her sleeves. “I’ve never seen the daylight sky, but this is the color that my mother described. And your hair is like the sun.”

Kate hides a smile in his collarbone.

In the end, they both abandoned their previous task of organizing the workroom and spent their evening reading together in the library, sitting close enough that their shoulders touched and their elbows sometimes knocked into each other when they turned the page.

Kate, already drowsy, finds her head drooping on his shoulders before very long.

“Did I tire you out?” Marak teases. “You thought you had a skilled husband before – I wonder what you think now?”

“You’re going to be insufferable aren’t you?” Kate mumbles.

“Well, seeing as my first attempt could be considered a roaring success – Yes. I will be.”

The implication of  _ that _ makes her sit up and look at him.

“Your first attempt? Marak are you . . .are you a virgin?”

Marak gives her a flat look. “My first wife thought I was the literal devil and screamed at the sight of me. You don’t honestly think I would take her to bed, do you?”

“But . . .she was your wife. You  _ need _ an heir. You didn’t have any other options.”

“It was my carelessness and impatience that put us in that situation. I would not be the cause of any more of her suffering.”

Kate realizes now the full extent of the risk Marak took, waiting out his first wife’s death in hopes that he wouldn’t run out of time to try again. If Kate hadn’t have arrived at Hallow Hill . . .would he have found another wife? Or would the unthinkable happen?

No wonder he pursued her so ruthlessly.

“That says a lot about you,” she says softly.

He snorts. “That I’m a fool who put his entire people at risk – twice? That if I had lost you, my kingdom may have very well been doomed because I didn’t have the guts to do what needed to be done like all my forefathers did.”

She places a hand over his chest, where his heart thrums underneath. “That you have compassion and kindness even when it’s not practical. That’s not a foolish thing to have.”

“Well.” He covers her hand with his. “If it’s something you admire then I suppose I shouldn’t regret it.”


	10. In Which Absence Makes the Heart Grow Angrier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long wait! Time got away from me and I'm still juggling way too many WIP that I promised myself I would have, haha. This is another spicy chapter, so enjoy!

“Marak, can you grab the green and white gown while you’re in there? The one with the tucks in front?”

She can hear his groan of complain from the closet. “You know I hate that dress,” he says.

“You and Emily, I don’t what is wrong with the two of you,” Kate huffs, cross. “ _I_ like it and that’s all that matters. Your personal taste does not factor in my choice of clothing.”

Marak sticks his head out of the closet. “Someone is in a mood this morning,” he says. He gives her that smirk that both infuriates her or inspires her in turns and walks back towards her.

“Here.” he sticks his thumb out. “Bite this and get it over with and then wear the blue dress.”

“The blue dress? Marak, I’ve worn that dress twice this week already!”

“I know. It’s my favorite.”

“The court is going to think I don’t own any other clothes! Or that I have no sense in fashion.”

“The court already thought that the first time you showed up in that hideous dress to beg for my help. Come on, bite the thumb. It made you feel so powerful the last time.”

She glares at him and at his thumb, which she had made _bleed_ the last time. But of course, goblin magic would ensure he had no scars to remember the encounter by. Nothing she does has any lasting effect, she thinks unhappily.

Marak does nothing but smirk back, as if he knows exactly how powerless she really is. It ignites something in her, something spiteful that her father would heartily disapprove of and that Marak will probably admire.

Kate takes his thumb and slides it into his mouth, teeth scraping over the fleshy pad. Her teeth close in over the knuckle and something – instinct perhaps – makes her suck down on it.

Marak’s eyes go wide, that smirk disappearing like a rabbit down a hole. Kate swallows involuntarily, which pushes her tongue flatter against his skin. A dangerous edge lurks in his eyes. Kate slowly pulls away, his thumb sliding almost obscenely between her lips.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asks, hesitant.

Her husband doesn’t answer her. Instead he swoops in, fingers digging into her waist as he pulls her to him, and kisses her soundly.

Kate makes a squeak of surprise before she kisses him back – or attempts to. It’s hard to keep pace with the desperate way he kisses her, like he’s suffocating and she has all the air. She stands on her tip toes, bracing her hands on his shoulders, so Marak doesn’t have to stoop so.

It takes mere seconds for Kate’s body to respond to him, her heart pounding, her stomach swooping, that strange throbbing in her sex that is rapidly becoming familiar to her. One of Marak’s hands roam up her torso and she feels every burning inch of it through the thin material of her nightgown, no undergarments to impede his touch. His thumb slides across her breast and a jolt of desire strikes her through to the core.

She moans in his mouth and it turns into a gasp of surprise when he picks her up suddenly, hands scandalously cupping her bottom, bringing her flush against him. The hem of Kate’s nightgown rides up several inches to her upper thighs and she wraps her legs around his waist for balance. A burst of pleasure hits at the feel of him pressed against her, sending her gasping.

A deep groan sounds from her husband’s mouth, echoing from his chest to hers. His heart pounds underneath her palm where she clutches at his neck, kissing him eagerly.

Marak carries her to the bed as if she weighed nothing more than a sack of flour, his grip secure even when she experiments with biting his lower lip like he has done to her. Before they reach the mattress, Marak spins them around so he sits on the edge while she straddles his lap like some kind of wanton harlot.

His lips find their way to her neck, stifling her protest, fingers buried deep into her hair. Her voice turns into incoherent gasps as he nibbles and kisses and sucks his way to her collarbones.

Groaning, Marak tightens his grip on her waist,  pressing their hips together, and the spark of pleasure that erupts from her makes her lose all manner of sense.  Her hips roll against him, a desperate search of pleasure she has no control over, gasping at the way his silk shirt tickles inner thighs.

His lifts a hand from her waist and drags it up her torso until he cups her breast, trapping her nipple in his thumb and forefinger,  teasing it. 

Kate is too far gone to feel any shame at the obscene noise she makes. Her fingers dig into his hair, destroying the tidy ponytail he put it in.

“Fathers, Kate,” his hisses against her lips, “you are driving me _mad_.”

Driving _him_ mad?

Two weeks ago he took her apart in the workroom and everything reminds her of it: her desk in her classroom, the way Marak’s voice sounds in the morning after he’s woken up, feeling the heat of his body next to her in their bed, actually being in the workroom, having that desk loom to the side.

For two weeks Kate has waited for him to touch her again with nothing to show for it.

If she didn’t know better, she would almost think he didn’t want her. And occasionally that thought would whisper in her head regardless. Even though he indicated so, Kate sometimes wonders if perhaps she dissatisfied him in some way.

But now any of thought of _that_ withers in the face of his hands on her, the way his hips buck up into hers, the sounds he makes the brief moment their bodies collide. Her nerves feel every slide and catch of the fabric of his clothes on her skin and suddenly Kate wants nothing more than to feel his own skin on hers.

Her fingers dive down to the buttons of his shirt half a second before she realizes what she’s doing. She gets three buttons down before Marak covers her hand, stopping their kiss abruptly.

Kate freezes. “Marak?”

Did she do something wrong? Was there some kind of taboo with Goblins against the wife undressing the husband?

“Kate,” he groans, resting his forehead against hers and breathing hard. “Gods, Kate, I want nothing more than let you keep going in whatever direction you’re headed, but we don’t have the time.”

She wants to scream in frustration. “Court has waited for me before!”

“Of course, but Court is not what concerns me. I have arrangements to make for my trip and those can’t wait.”

Something in her insides freeze. Kate pulls back to glare at him. “Trip? What trip?”

“The trip I’m taking to London. We leave by midday.”

“ _Midday?”_ Her glare turns accusing. “How long are you going to be gone?”

“About five days or so, depending on the snow.”

Her mouth falls open.  _“Five days?_ And you failed to inform me of this before because . . .”

His eyebrows raise. “Because it doesn’t matter when I inform you, since you’re not going?”

“Of course it matters! It’s the _polite_ thing to do!” she says hotly.

“How is it polite?” he asks.

Marak gives her that look of wide-eyed ignorance that makes her want to slap him across the face like the hysterical heroines in books. She hates it more than his atrocious manners. He knows _very well_ what behavior is considerate or inconsiderate – he just doesn’t care. It’s silly to him, the idea of acting on behalf of another person’s feelings.

And the worst part – the very worst part – is that if Kate ever deigns to argue with him about it, he can make all his despicable behavior sound perfectly rational and her objections completely illogical.

So Kate swallows her anger down until it slides bitterly into her stomach, purses her lips, an d climbs off of him to stand rather shakily by the bed.

“It just is,” she says.

“Thank you,” says Marak rather acidly. “That’s very enlightening.”

The fire in her blood is doused out, as if someone had dumped her in the lake. Instead, a new heat starts kindling in her chest, despite her best efforts to snuff it out.

“I’m getting dressed for breakfast,” she snaps.

Full of rage, Kate stalks off to her dressing room.

It’s the only thing she says to him for the rest of the morning. 

  
  


She doesn’t see him again until after her classes have finished. He finds her in the classroom just after the last page has been picked up by her mother.

Kate busies herself with organizing the stack of papers that contain her students’ practice of the English alphabet so she doesn’t have to look at him.

“Well, darling wife, I’m off,” he says, unconcerned with her lack of attention.

“Safe travels,” she says, dabbing her grading pen in the red ink jar.

“Thank you. I think five days should be sufficient for you to get over your temper.”

Kate stills a moment, a fresh wave of rage taking her rather by surprise. She grips her pen tighter and says, with perfect steadiness, “You would be surprised.”

“I’m sure I will be. Your stubbornness is rapidly becoming the stuff of legend.”

It’s a remark designed to rile her up – and she keeps her focus on her papers. In the beginning of her marriage, when they argued nearly every day, Kate realized that ignoring him proved to be the most effective retaliation. He cannot bear not to have her attention, even if it’s negative.

So  it doesn’t surprise her when he comes around the desk to kneel beside her, his mouth close to her ear. 

“Kate,” he says.

She scribbles on her student’s work that she would probably have to scratch out later.

“Yes?”

“ _Kate_.”

He takes her chin in his fingertips, barely touching her, and turns her face to his. For a long moment he just looks at her while she gives him a flat stare. Then the corner of his mouth tugs up.

“Try to not to miss me too much, wife,” he says.

“It’s five days,” she says. “I’m not going to miss you at all.”

“I’ll miss you.” The look of unmistakable fondness in his eyes almost – _almost_ – dissolves the anger that still sits in her chest. 

She looks away before it can. Marak presses his lips against hers for a brief kiss and then he sweeps out of the room.

  
  


Dinner is quiet – mostly because the vast majority of her dinner companions are gone. Emily and Kate muddle through together, her sister looking rather lost. Even Seylin has left.

She picks at her food long enough to seem polite and then she goes up to her rooms.

The bed is gloriously empty. She has the entire thing to herself. She could lie in the middle of it, stretch her arms out as far as they could go and not touch the edges of the mattress.

Kate has not slept in peaceful solitude since that night Marak tried to kidnap her.

  
  


And this fact remains true because Kate does not sleep this night either.

  
  


The first full day of Marak’s absence is one of the worst in recent memory. Kate wears the one dress designed without buttons that had so offended her husband because it’s the only one she can put on without his help.

Did he think of _that_ when he planned this trip, the fact that she can’t get dressed without his help? Of course not. Yet another reason why she would have liked to know about it in advanced.

Maybe she should write this down and throw it back in his face when he returns. Maybe then he’ll think twice before dismissing the idea of manners.

Her lack of sleep the night before has turned her sluggish – almost as if she were drugged. She’s so tired she can barely eat and she confuses the letters b and d four times before one of her students kindly corrected her.

She collapses on the couch on the library and naps straight through lunch, woken only by arrival of Agatha with a tray of leftovers.

There is also a cup of hot tea.

“Oh Agatha, you’re an angel,” Kate says, sitting up on the couch. Her hair must look a fright but she doesn’t have the energy to care.

“My poor dear, look at those dark circles!” exclaims Agatha as she settles next to Kate on the couch. “I was worried something like this would happen.”

“Something like what?” Kate asks.

Agatha pats her on the knee. “It’s your first time away from each other. Adele also had a hard time whenever Marak’s father went away. She would run herself ragged just so she could sleep at night. And after your Marak was born, he would crawl in the bed with her and they would stay up half the night telling each other silly stories.”

Kate bristles at the insinuation that she might _miss_ her rude, inconsiderate, priggish husband.

“I think you’ve reached a different conclusion than I have,” she says carefully. “I’ve grown used to sleeping with another person. To be alone suddenly is . . .unsettling. It’s not that I miss him. He’s only gone a few days, that’s hardly enough time to develop those kinds of feelings.”

She can tell immediately from Agatha’s face that the dwarf does not believe her for one second. But Agatha just pats her knee again.

“Forgive an old dwarf her romantic notions. Perhaps you can ask your sister to keep you company? Maybe then you’ll get some much needed rest.”

Emily had stayed with her the first two nights of her life here and she loved Marak’s giant bed.

“That’s an excellent idea, thank you very much,” says Kate. She gives the dwarf a warm smile. “And thank you for checking up on me.”

“Any time, dear. Any time.”

  
  


Emily is delighted to abandon her narrow page’s cot for Kate’s luxurious bed and adjacent bathroom. She cajoles Kate into an hour long bubble bath and then steals Kate’s enchanted bathrobe. Emily yammers on about her life with the pages, her growing hatred for a new teacher that rather concerns Kate, and how much she misses Seylin.

Kate, in turn, tells Emily about the kinds of magic she watches Marak creates in the workroom, the strange ingredients she’s been labeling, and a very censored version of how she burned a hole in one of the tables.

It’s comforting to have Emily’s presence with her and Kate snuggles in and sleeps soundly.

  
  


In a surprising turn of events, after two days Emily grows rather sick of spending time with Kate, much preferring to play with the other pages when lessons are over. Not even another bubble bath could cajole her back. Kate ends up having to swallow her pride and ask Agatha to come in during the mornings to help Kate get dressed.

The dwarf is more than happy to comply with anything Kate asks. She arrives promptly each morning before breakfast and Kate sits on her vanity bench so Agatha can reach the top buttons. Then she brushes Kate’s hair and twists it into intricate and beautiful braids that neither her nor Marak could have ever accomplished. All the while, Agatha tells embarrassing stories about Marak when he was a child, and funny stories about Adele and the adventures she got up to.

“Marak doesn’t talk often about her,” Kate remarks that second morning. “He speaks about his parents together as a sort of . . .example for us. But he doesn’t share many stories about her.”

Sorrow crinkles the edges of Agatha’s eyes. “They were very close his whole life. I don’t think, even after ten years, that he has quite made his peace with her absence.”

“I know how that feels,” Kate says softly. “At least he has you.”

Agatha sighs. “He could be so . . .frustrating as a child. Oh  he would make me so angry!  Even so, I am very fond of him. I think you know that feeling as well.”

“Sometimes,” Kate admits.

It’s all she will say on the matter.

  
  


The third morning of Agatha’s help – and the morning of the day Marak returns – Agatha spends extra time turning the top half of Kate’s hair into a braided rose. Kate marvels at it in the mirror for a good five minutes.

“This is a special brand of magic,” she says, her fingers tracing over the tightly braided ‘petals’.

Agatha tittered, flattered. “No, no. Just a braid like any other. I could teach you, even.”

“I think I would enjoy that,” says Kate. “Though I’m not sure I’m capable of this level of intricacy.”

“You will if you practice. I am much, much older than you, dear.”

Then Agatha shows Kate the small wicker box she brought with her. Inside contains small pots of make up – lip stains and blush and even kohl for her eyes. Unlike British society, the goblin high families love the drama of make up. Every week it seems a different trend sweeps through and it’s not restricted by gender, though Marak doesn’t bother with it. Kate also can’t bring herself to indulge, unable to shake off the stigma of the “painted lady.”

But, almost morbidly curious, she allows Agatha to dab a pale pink lip stain on her mouth, press a translucent peach colored powder on her eyelids, and swipe a light blush over her cheekbones. The make up gives Kate a subtle glow without being patently obvious.

“Let our king have a look at _that_ ,” says Agatha, smugly satisfied as she puts away her tools. “We will have an heir in short order.”

“Agatha!” Kate gasps, blushing to the tips of her roots.

The dwarf just laughs.

“Do you . . .do you know what they are supposed to get in,” Kate asks hesitantly.

“I’m not sure.” Agatha suddenly frowns. “There was a sudden snow storm last night, but I’m sure they will be back by dinner.”

“Will this last until then?” Kate waves at her face.

“Of course it will. I’ve spelled it. It will wash off with warm water, but stay in place until then.”

“Thank you again,” says Kate as they head to breakfast.

“Think nothing of it. It does me good to have someone to spoil again.”

  
  


Marak does not come back by dinner. Kate spends the day in restless torment. Her concentration doesn’t last for more than a few minutes.

She tried reading three different novels before giving up. She worked on relabeling more of his bottles, but ran into trouble after the first two when she couldn’t ask Marak to clarify the labels.

Agatha had given her more fabric and thread for needle point, but after five days Kate’s sick of it too. She walks a lot after her lessons, touring the gardens, the grazing fields for the sheep, exploring the shops and bustle of what amounts to “town”.

The past few days have been the most peaceful of her life – no teasing. No ridiculous arguments. No atrocious behavior. It’s as close to her old life as she can possibly have.

She loathes every second of it. The quiet is slowly driving her mad. She needs the sound of his breathing next to her at night, his muttering in the workshop as she works on lessons, his comments on the books she lends him as they read.

How dare he do this to her! Kate had never in her life hated peace and solitude. He must have worked some kind of spell on her before he left, some sick joke, to keep her dependent on his company!

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she reluctantly dismisses it as ridiculous. Marak adamantly refuses to work magic on her unless she explicitly asks him to.

The real reason is just as infuriating. Marriage to a goblin has turned her into someone who craves conflict. She never acted this way with her father. As a girl she was happy to be calm and quiet and obedient. But Marak has done nothing but push her past those boundaries since the very moment he met her and now look at what she’s become – someone who can’t go five days without an argument and keep her sanity.

She pushes herself to stay up much later than her usual schedule permits, reading by the mage light, determined to wait him out –

  
  


She stirs at feel of her book sliding through her fingers. The room is almost completely dark, the only light coming from the sun filtering through the lake. A tall shadow hovers at her beside, placing the book on the nightstand – something she hears rather than sees.

“Oh, little elf,” it says, brushing her hair back. “Did you wait up for me?”

“I’m very angry with you,” Kate mumbles, pressing her face into the palm of his hand.

“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” says her husband.

He withdraws his hand and disappears for several moments. Kate drifts in and out of sleep. Then she feels, very faintly, the mattress dipping as he crawls into bed. Then she feels, very strongly, his heavy arms wrap around her waist and pull her body against his. His nose tucks itself against her neck, breath stealing across her skin.

Kate wants to say more – she’s _very angry_ – but sleep drags her body back down.

  
  


  
  


When her eyes flutter open next, the daylight lamps glow in their sconces and the clock reads a quarter past eight in the morning. Beside her Marak sleeps like the dead, the only sign of life is his chest rising and falling under the blankets and the heat of him seeping through sleeve of her nightgown.

He sleeps like a prince in a fairy tale and she has the startling urge to kiss him.

It makes her even angrier.

“Marak _.”_

She shakes his shoulder. Nothing. She pokes his side. Nothing.

“Marak.”

Kate shoves him and he flops back over on his side of the bed.  Her husband pretends to sleep, but she knows better.  The sound of his breathing has changed,  not to mention that no one could sleep through that without the help of magic. 

“ _Marak_ ,” she says again, glaring at him. 

Her husband doesn’t move, eyes still closed.  _Ignoring her!_ Absent for almost a week and the first thing he does when he returns is  _ignore her_ . 

Kate sits up, rage flaring up, just as healthy as it  was last night.  She blames it for her sudden daring. She will not be ignored. 

Swinging her legs over his form, Kate sits up and leans over him, bracing herself with her hands on either side of his face. Emily did this exact thing to her on Christmas morning. She would not be denied  then and now, neither will Kate. 

“ _Marak Sixfinger_.”

Her husband sighs, deeply,  and then cracks an eye open. 

“Kate, my beautiful wife, I don’t know if you remember – you were sleeping quite soundly – but I arrived rather late last night and, as a result, I would also like to sleep.”

If he expected Kate to feel any sympathy for him, then he erred _greatly._

“You arrived _very_ late last night!” Kate snaps. “ _Where were you_?”

H is eyes open fully, then, and he gazes up at her,  a calculating gleam in his eye. 

“On a trip to London. Did you forget already?”

“You were supposed to be back yesterday!”

“I was back yesterday. Just very late yesterday. So late, in fact, that it could technically be considered this morning. Which is why you should let your husband _sleep_.”

She glares at him. “I know you don’t particularly care for this sort of thing, but the _polite_ thing to have done was to send word that you would be late!”

He rolls his eyes. “And what would that have accomplished? It wouldn’t change  the time of  my arrival.”

“It would have let _your wife_ know that you didn’t die falling off a cliff or freezing to death in a blizzard or getting murdered by some ruffian on the road!”

Marak hoots with laughter as if she just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. The  s ound of it is like a match striking flint. 

“Kate, I’m the _Goblin King_. It’s going to take quite a bit more than snow and some bandits to take me out!”

Her throat tightens with tears of absolute rage.  She tries to swallow them down before he notices, but one slips out and falls on his chest. 

Instantly his face changes from  mirth to concern. Before she can turn away, he lifts his hand and cups her cheek. 

“Oh Kate,” he says softly and she can’t bear it. “Were you worried about me?”

“No,” she says fiercely and the corner of his mouth quirks up.

“You were,” he says, the smirk spreading across his face. “I’m sorry, Kate. I thought I would get home in time, but the snow was deeper than we expected.”

“I don’t care anymore,” she says thickly. “I’m quite over it.”

“If I had known you were worried, I would have sent word somehow. Honestly, I didn’t think you would notice.”

There’s something hiding underneath the nonchalant curve of his smirk.  _Honestly I didn’t think you would notice._

Not notice the lack of him, the eerie quiet of his absence, like the sound of his breathing at night, or the clacking of his glass bottles or the scratch of his pen nib or the muttering as he flipped through three different books to find something. Not notice dressing alone, eating alone, reading alone.

Like he didn’t matter to her. Like he isn’t entwined in every single part of her life.

“It was awful without you,” she admits. “I hated every bit of it.”

She hates how much she loves seeing his smirk melt into something fond and lovesick. His thumb skates down her cheek and pulls at her lower lip and then he rises up to kiss her.

Her stomach flutters and she kisses him back with growing hunger. She missed his affections as much as she missed his company, a fact that became harder and harder to ignore as the days passed. In only a few short months, Kate has grown accustomed to kisses before breakfast, reading with her legs draped over his lap, the brush of his fingers against her back as he helps her get dressed.

Not to mention the frustration of what preparations of this trip interrupted. _That_ moment has haunted her since he left.

Marak pulls her flush against his chest, his fingers sliding through her hair and _oh_ she missed that. Her fingers curl into the front of his tunic and her toes curl into the sheets. She almost groans in protest when he pulls away and rests his forehead against her.

“I missed you too,” he says. “And I would love to show you,” his fingers toy with the lace on the collar of her nightgown and her stomach clenches, “just how very much,” they slide across her collarbone and up the side of her throat, “when I have had more than two hours of sleep.”

Kate bites back a sigh and buries her face in the crook of his neck to calm the sudden fluttering in her stomach. She feels the vibrations of Marak’s chuckle before she hears it.

“I bet you didn’t sleep well either, little elf,” he says.

“I didn’t sleep well the entire time you were gone,” she says. “It was very rude of you to have left in the first place.”

“Yes, I’m starting to realize that.” He adjusts her body until it lies flush against his side, her head on his shoulder, and her arm flung across his chest. “But once we rest up, I have something that will make it up to you.”

“You can’t fix everything with – with – amorous affection,” Kate says, her cheeks flaming.

“I bet I can, actually. But I have something else in mind. Really, Kate, is that all you think about?”

She gasps in outrage and he squeezes her against his side, laughing.

“Yes, I certainly missed you,” he says, so fondly that snuffs out her anger. “Come now, just a few more hours.”

“I suppose I will allow it,” she says, her imperious tone stolen by the exhaustion tugging at her.

“Thank you,” says Marak with a hint of irony.

In minutes they are both asleep.

  
  


Kate waits up  to the oddest sensation on her neck. It’ s not quite tickling, but the touch is soft and warm . It takes her a moment, eyes still closed a nd mind still fuzzy.

Someone is kissing her.

As the fog of sleep clears, Kate also notices the heavy arm clutched around her waist, fingers tracing idle patterns over her stomach, and the small ache steadily building within her.

Her eyes flutter open. Marak’s mouth brushes against the hinge of her jaw.

“Good morning,” he murmurs. “Or rather – good afternoon.”

“What time is it?” she mumbles.

“It’s just after lunch.” His teeth catch on her earlobe and Kate sucks in a breath.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

He pauses, his breath hovering over the shell of her ear that alone is enough to send a  curl of frission down her spine.

“Kissing my beautiful wife, whom I missed so much. Do you want me to stop?” 

Kate swallows, her flush rising up with her heart rate. “No,” she breathes.

“Good.” 

He starts kissing slowly back down her neck. Gooseflesh erupts down her arm. Every so often his tongue will  dart out to taste her, dragging a startled gasp from her, until he reaches the juncture of her neck and shoulder. 

Then he  _sucks_ , his mouth like a hot, wet brand,  driving a strangled moan from her lips . He does again, just a little further upwards, and again just behind her ear. Kate’s body thrashes and shudders until his arm tightens around her, bringing her flush against his chest.  Feeling held down makes her body squirm even more, driven by instinctual need to seek out – she’s not sure what. 

“Fathers, Kate, your neck is so sensitive,” Marak murmurs. “I wonder how far it goes.”

G ently he takes her braid and curls it over the top of her head, leaving the back of her neck exposed to the cold bedroom air.  His lips ghost  a trail from behind her ear , pressing soft kisses under her hairline. The hairs on the back of her neck rise.  Each kiss lingers, appearing further and further down her neck until he reaches the top of her spine. Each kiss sends her gasping and shuddering, the muscles in her back tightening, pebbling the skin of her arm. 

For a moment he pauses at the neckline of her nightgown. By now desire is crackling and thrumming through her veins, and the fact that she can’t see him makes her keenly aware of his every move. Just the anticipation of him is enough to make her squirm. 

T hen he tugs the neckline further down her back, as much as it would allow  before it would choke her, and continues to kiss down her spine and over  the tops of  shoulder blades. 

“We should get you a different gown,” he murmurs between kisses. “One with a lower neckline. Or maybe I should just take this off.”

Kate’s heart roars in her ears and she stutters in his grip.

“W-what?”

He chuckles against her spine, wracking her body with another shiver.  The hand wrapped around her middle slides down under the covers until it reaches the hem of her nightgown and slowly tugs it up past her thighs until it rests on the verge of exposure. 

A wave of dizziness washes over her, as if she had stood up too fast after reading for hours in the library,  at the feeling of the pads of his fingers brush against her inner thigh. Marak is her husband, he can dress her or undress at his discretion, yet he  has  never taken anything he’s owed without her permission. 

And apparently, as the hem of her nightgown hovers over the tops of her thighs, this time is no different.

“Well?” he murmurs. “May I?”

Kate swallows, at war with herself. Baring herself to Marak, even half under the covers and in the dark, feels darkly thrilling and equally terrifying.  No one has seen her naked except for her younger sister and even then it had been years since they had bathed together as children. Not to mention the natural conclusion that happens once a woman is naked in front of her husband. 

And yet the fear of that unknown has become rather exhausting.  A growing part of her wishes that Marak would just indulge in what she owes him as a wife without her having to make a mortifying decision about it.

“You’re thinking too much,” he says. He pulls her hem up a fraction of an inch, brushing his knuckle against the thin skin of her thigh. His nose presses against the shell of her ear. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

Flashes of the last time he said that to her flare up, and Kate whimpers.

Slowly Marak’s hand  skates up her thigh, taking the hem of her nightgown with it.  Kate’s breath stops as she feels the cotton whisper over her hips, appearing out from underneath the covers.  He stops long enough to caress her stomach,  his hand broad enough to nearly cover the expanse of it if he stretched his fingers out. 

“Breathe, Kate,” he whispers.

Kate lets out the breath she forgot she was holding, sucking in air as her nightgown lifts over her breasts and up to collarbone. Cold air hits her chest, tightening her nipples harder than they were before. The knowledge of her exposure, even in the dark, even with Marak behind her, sends a dizz y ing flutter in her stomach. 

“There we go,” he says, pleased.

His hand difts back down to hold her waist.  She hears the whisper of sheets as he shifts down the bed and then Kate gasps as she feels his lips suddenly de sc end  hotly  on the small of her back.  Her hips buck of their own accord and Marak’s fingers tighten on her waist, holding her in place. The muscles in her back spasm as he kisses up her spine, dragging his lips over the bones of her shoulder blade, diving up to give a sudden, sucking kiss on her neck that sends her arcing against him before nosing back down to her shoulder. 

“M-Marak,” Kate gasps. Her thighs press tightly together, seeking relief, sticky with her own fluid.

_Fathers, Kate, you’re wet._

_What does that mean?_

_It means you like what I’m doing to do very much_ . 

Between the throbbing in her center, the tingle of waves of gooseflesh down her arm, the shivers running down her spine, Kate feels like she is losing her mind.

“Yes, my darling wife?” Marak asks against the juncture of her shoulder blades.

“Please,” she begs. “ _Please_.”

His hand slides down to the seam of her thigh and leg.“Please what?”

Kate thrashes against him, but he his hand does nothing more than caress her inner thigh in a touch delicate enough to make  the roaring ache inside her worse . 

“ _Marak,_ ” she whines. 

He chuckles and nibbles at the shell of her ear. “I’m not a mind reader, Kate, remember?”

In a fit of frustration, Kate takes his hand and shoves it over her sex, her face burning but her desire too strong for shame. The calloused pad  of his finger slides down her center and  she nearly screams. 

“ _Oh Kate_ ,” he groans against her ear. “Gods, you are _soaked_. Is that what my teasing does to you, little elf? Do you like the way I touch you?”

His fingers glide easily between her folds, up from the nub of pleasure near the top to carefully teasing her entrance. Every nerve of her skin sings and aches for him. Something her chest tightens like the string of a bow.  It makes her behave like an animal possessed, grinding against his hand as he explores every inch of her. 

“I thought about you every day I was gone,” he says, pressing a wet kiss behind her ear. “The way your hair feels when I braid it, the smell of your perfume when I button up your dress, the look in your eyes when I aggravate you. You have no idea the things I wanted to do to you that morning I left.”

Kate almost makes a retort, but the sudden slide of his finger into her center drags an obscene whine from her and blots out any rational thought in her head. Marak chuckles, as if he read her mind.

“Oh yes, I’ve also thought of these sounds you make. Remember them, Kate?”

His finger glides in and out of her and it’s both filling and frustrating. Her hips press up against the heel of his palm in an erratic search for relief.

“Remember how I had you on that table in the workshop, touching you just like this?”

His thumb  brushes on that little bundle of nerves and Kate moans, loud and prolonged some like some kind of French harlot, and she doesn’t have the mental faculties to feel embarrassed about it. 

“ _Yes_. That sound. Fathers, Kate, that sound haunts my dreams. I’ve had six days to come up with all the things I’m going to do hear that sound again. Are you ready for it?”

Kate moans and nods her assent.

“I can’t hear you, little elf.”

“ _Please_ ,” she cries, eyes squeezed shut. 

“As you wish.”

There’s an immediate shift in his touch. What was once slow and teasing and infuriating now has purpose. He shifts behind her, pulling his other arm out from underneath her pillow and pushing it un d erneath her side so he can cup her breast, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.  His thumb rubs over her nub as his finger fills her. 

Pleasure and the desperate ache for relief swirl together until her mind is dizzy with it. Marak’s nibbles and sucks down from the tip of her ear to the juncture of her shoulder and neck and the combination of so many maddening sensations sends her over the edge, those swirls of pleasure and relief breaking over her like the tide.

Kate keens  so loud her voice cracks and the servants can probably hear it in the hallway  as they pass by.  It takes her a long, long moment to catch her breath, her chest heaving.  Then she scrabbles to push her nightgown back to it’s usual  _decent_ arrangement before turning around and facing her husband for the first time this morning.

Marak looks unbearably smug.  Her first instinct is rather violent until he reaches out and brushes an escaped curl behind her ear. 

“So, little elf, are my reparations acceptable or are you still angry? If so, I have many more ideas of how to calm your ire.”

The all-consuming fury has abated – she’s too boneless to work up a proper rage. But six days of near solitude was enough for Kate to work out exactly what made her so upset to begin with.

“Do you know what it was like when you were gone?” she asks.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You said you hated it.”

“I did. For starters I only have one gown I can put on by myself. Did you make any arrangements for someone to help me with my morning routine before you left?”

Marak opens his mouth and then abruptly closes it. Kate doesn’t take the time to indulge in his speechlessne s s, as much as she wants to. 

“No, you did not. I tried to recruit my sister, but she quickly grew tired of it so Agatha kindly stepped in. You were right earlier – I didn’t sleep well the entire time you were gone. Even after a few months, this place still feels strange to me and I’ve never had to sleep alone before.”

“I assumed you would have Emily,” Marak says.

“I did have Emily. For about two days before she missed her own quarters and left. Emily has friends among the pages, she has purpose. It’s not the same for me. I have you. My whole world here revolves around you.”

“You have your class,” he points out but his brow has furrowed in concern.

“That’s three hours of my time a week. Outside of that . . .who do I eat with? Who do I read with? Who do I help in the workshop? Who do I discuss my day with? Who helps me get ready for the day or for bed? _You_ , Marak. You. So yes, your absence affects my life a great deal and _that’s_ why it’s rude to take off without informing me. I needed to prepare for it just as much as you.”

“I see.” Marak looks at her gravely, all trace of his earlier smugness gone.

“And –” Kate starts, but then stops and bites her lip.

“And what?” Marak prompts.

But  she’s not sure she wants to go on. Most of the time her husband does his best to understand and accept her feelings, but not always. It’s still risky to admit what bothers her because she can’t predict when he will treat it seriously or laugh it off as absurd.

“Kate,” he says softly, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone. “And what?”

“Just because you don’t understand something that I feel or believe does not mean you should dismiss it entirely,” she admits reluctantly. “You not informing me of your trip upset me but . . .brushing off the fact that it upset me because you thought it was silly was –“ she swallows and looks away “– demeaning.”

A thick silence descends upon them. Kate does not  _dare_ look at him, terrified that she might find him perplexed or dismissive. But then Marak tilts her face up to his and his gaze and the sober intensity of his gaze is almost too much. 

“Kate,” he says. “I owe you an apology. You’re absolutely right. It was incredibly rude of me not to take into account what difficulties you would have without me here. I should have given you time to prepare or make arrangements. And even if you didn’t have any difficulties, I should have never made light of your anger. That was unbearably cruel of me and nothing like how a good husband should act. I will work harder to ensure it doesn’t happen again.”

“I – thank you,” Kate says, completely flummoxed. She hadn’t expected a full scale apology. Goblins rarely apologized about anything – they’d rather let the other party get even. 

Marak runs the backs of his fingers down her cheek, looking  unbearably fond. “And I’m sorry I came in so late. If it’s any consolation, it drove me mad to stay away. I looked  so  forward to seeing you.”

“You’re going to have to apologize to Agatha, too,” says Kate. “She put my hair up in this beautiful braid that looked like a rose and convinced me to wear make-up.”

“ _You_ wore make-up?”

Kate smiles shyly. “I did, a little. Probably not enough to be noticeable.”

“Oh I would notice,” says Marak. “Now I want to kick myself even more.”

“Maybe I could be persuaded to try it again. If you used the right methods to convince me.”

Her governess would die of shock to hear Kate insinuate something so boldly inappropriate. And even Kate’s ears are reddening despite herself. But this is her husband, she reminds herself, and propriety is generally the least concern he has.

“ _Kate_ ,” he says, a wide grin breaking out over his face. “I may very well die of shock.”

“Then maybe I should keep quiet. You don’t have an heir yet.”

“Come here,” says Marak, reaching out of her with sudden impatience. “I’ve missed you so.”

She happily curls up against his chest, her head tucked under his chin.

“What was the purpose of your trip?” she asks. “You never told me.”

“That’s because I wanted it to be a surprise,” he says. “Perhaps after dinner I will show you, if you feel up to it.”

“It have better been worth it,” she mutters.

"I suppose you'll find out."

  
  



	11. In Which There Is Dancing and Behavior of a Scandalous Nature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've noticed a huge influx of hits/kudos/comments on this fic in the last few weeks. I don't know if someone's out there reccing this fic, but if they are, I thank them! If not, I'm still thrilled this fic has gotten more than like 10 views. Thank you everyone!

When Kate sees the library decked out in holly and long boughs of pine, festooned with ribbon and twinkling lights, she almost can’t believe it. It certainly  _ looks _ like Christmas décor, but it couldn’t possibly. . . Goblins aren’t Christian, they probably think the whole religion is frankly ridiculous.

And yet, looking at the twinkling magical lights, the dark red and gold, the garlands of ribbon, how it could be anything else?

“What is this?” She asks, gazing around the library. The decorations cover the bookshelves, the fireplace mantle, draped from the ceiling.

“Really, Kate? As devout as you claim to be and you can’t even recognize Christmas boughs?”

“How do  _ you _ know what Christmas is? You’re a – a godless heathen!”

“It’s true, I am. But you forget how many of Christ’s children have found their way down here. We know all of your ridiculous holidays.”

Kate snorts, refusing to rise to his obvious bait. For someone who deems it ridiculous, Marak has put in a lot of work in beautifying this room. Goblin magic has given it an ethereal touch impossible by human standards.

To think she had been so upset at the thought of her first winter without Christmas.

“I can’t believe you went through all the trouble for me,” she says, smiling over at him.

Marak raises an eyebrow. “That’s because I didn’t.”

Is he teasing her? He looks quite serious, but why else would he have decorated for Christmas?

“Well surely you didn’t do it for  _ you _ ?”

He grins. “Why not? Even a godless heathen can appreciate the aesthetics of Christmas, even if it is wildly impractical.”

She glares at him. Reducing symbols of Christ’s birth to a mere artistic prop! How  _ dare _ he!

Marak steps closer to the mantle, reaching out to brush his hand one of the garlands. “My mother loved Christmas. She was so despondent when she missed it her first winter here. My father thought some silly garland and lights and some gifts was an easy price to pay for something that made her so happy. He even made it snow in the garden on Christmas morning. They celebrated it every year. I grew up loving it the same as any other human child.”

His eyes have that same haunted look in them as her father’s did whenever the subject of Kate’s mother came up.

_ They were very close his whole life.  _ Agatha had said.  _ I don’t think, even after ten years, that he has quite made his peace with her absence. _

“You do this for Adele,” Kate says softly. She walks up to him and places her hand in his.

“It’s a good way to remember her. And I’ve never gone a year of my life without a Christmas.” He smiles down at her, the edges of it still soft with grief. “But now I have someone to share with. I admit, I may have gone a little more extravagant with this year’s decorations.They’re not normally so numerous. And I wanted human decorations to make it more familiar to you. Usually I magic up something.”

Kate grins. “Emily is going to be thrilled, even if there aren’t presents.”

Marak lets out a gasp of shocked outrage. “Of course I brought presents! What kind of Christmas doesn’t have presents? That’s almost blasphemy.”

“No,  _ that’s _ almost blasphemy,” says Kate with a roll of her eyes.

But she can’t find it in her to be truly upset.

Marak did more than just decorate the library. The day before Christmas Eve, Court is temporarily closed. He has said not a word to her about what she can expect for Christmas celebrations, but her students tell her more than enough after she finally tires of their excited, furtive whispers during class.

“What exactly has gotten you all so riled up?” she asks rather sternly.

They look up at her, flushed with guilt, until Runa squeals.

“The ball! The Christmas Ball!”

“The  _ what? _ ”

Sensing her curiosity, her students are all too happy to gather around her desk and spill every detail about the yearly Christmas Ball Marak hosts in the throne. Feasting, dancing, games – every human tradition expanded to a lavish extent that surprises Kate. She knew Goblins enjoyed parties and frivolity despite their practical nature, but this extends beyond even that.

“I can’t wait to see my dress,” Runa sighs dreamily. “Mother is getting it from the tailor’s today!”

Dress. Marak is hosting a lavish ball tomorrow night and he made no mention of a  _ dress _ ! Kate feels panic bloom in her chest, but squares it away for now. Instead, she focuses her nervous energy on teaching her students human vocabulary Christmas terms, the only subject they can concentrate on despite their excitement.

Some things never change, no matter what culture you’re in, she supposes.

“So when were you going to give me time to prepare for this grand ball?” Kate asks him that evening in the library. “It’s tomorrow and I don’t even have a dress!”

“What are you talking about? You already have a dress.”

“I – _ what _ ? I do not!”

“It’s in your dressing room. It was delivered after lunch.”

She gapes at him. “ _ When  _ were you going to tell me about  _ that? _ ”

He grins, finally looking up from his book. “I wasn’t. It was going to be a surprise.”

“Surprise? So I am denied the happiness of choosing my own dress?”

“You get that happiness daily. Indulge your husband this one time. I promise you will like it.”

“What if it doesn’t fit?”

“It will fit.”

Kate bites back a mulish retort. Goblin fashion clashes greatly with her more subtle sensibilities and she fears what gaudy monstrosity Marak has picked out for her. 

But what she sees hanging in her closet as she readies for bed makes her gasp in sheer delight rather than horror.

It’s red, a deep wine red velvet, threaded with delicate gold embroidery of holly leaves on the bust, sleeves, and hem. Besides the thick green ribbon under the bust and the embroidery, the dress has no other embellishment.

“Well? Is it as hideous as you feared?” Marak asks behind her.

“Marak, it’s  _ beautiful _ .” She reaches out and brushes her fingers across the satin ribbon.

“I’m rather insulted you doubted me. I have excellent taste.”

His fingers come up behind and swiftly unbuttons her down to the small of her back as she holds up the bodice. After four months, the act no longer embarrasses her, especially after she had human underthings tailored for her so her back no longer remained exposed.

“I am sorry to have doubted you,” she says, with only a hint of sarcasm. 

“I forgive you,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before leaving her to change. 

In the spirit of Christmas, Kate gives her students the next class off. It’s not just out of generosity – with the ball looming large this evening, she knows the struggle for productivity is a losing battle.

As it turns out, Kate has a class of her own to attend. Namely, dancing. Kate has just settled comfortably on the couch in the library to read that morning when Marak bursts through the doors, clapping his hands.

“Up, up! On your feet, Kate!” he says.

She looks up at him warily. “I just sat down!”

Marak walks over and plucks the book out of her hand, ignoring her outraged expression, before taking her arm and pulling her gently to her feet.

“You will thank me later, I promise,” he says. “I have to ensure you know how to dance properly before you embarrass yourself.”

“I know how to dance!” she says indignantly.

Which is not  _ entirely _ a lie. Though she hadn’t been out at Season, she attended a few parties with her father as she grew older and he taught her some of the dances. But it has been many years and the dances he taught her outdated even then.

“You know how to dance  _ human _ dances,” says Marak. “Goblin dances are different.”

“Oh? How so?”

Oh dear, how complicated is this going to be?

Marak pulls her to him, putting one hand on her hip and clasping her hand with the other. This close she can smell his cologne and see the minute details of his vest buttons.

“We’re not afraid to touch each other, for one,” he says with a smirk.

Kate swallows. “Yes, it is very . . .close.”

“Prepare yourself to be quite scandalized,” he says before sweeping her around the library.

By magic, tables and chairs and chaise lounges move out of their way as they swirl around the room. Kate stumbles quite a bit, distracted by the heat of his hand bleeding through to the small of her back. Touch not only had been rare in the dances her father taught her, but also fleeting. Fingertips brushed and then twirled away from each other.

Not this dance. Marak’s hands stay on her body the entire time, their feet close enough that she often steps on them if she’s not paying attention.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he says.

“But then I’ll trod on your feet,” she protests.

“I think my boots can withstand the immensity of a tiny elf like you. Your head can’t even reach my shoulders.”

That earns him a glare, which he happily ignores in favor of twirling her until she’s dizzy.

They dance for another hour until Marak has to excuse himself to finalize preparations, declaring her good enough not to embarrass herself. Which decidedly does not make Kate feel better. 

Agatha appears soon after to help Kate get ready, Emily behind her carrying a green dress and practically vibrating with excitement.

“Oh Kate! I’ve never been to a ball before,” she squeals, bouncing up ahead. “I’ve heard all  _ kinds _ of things about it! The pages get their own room just for games and pantomime!”

Kate and Agatha exchange weary looks.

“Oh, that girl makes me feel ancient,” murmurs Agatha.

Kate had barely shut the bedroom door before Emily begins hurriedly stripping out of her page’s uniform, shedding clothes like a trail of breadcrumbs to the dressing room.

“I can’t wait for Seylin to see my dress – it’s  _ gorgeous _ . It almost makes me look pretty!”

As Emily gets older, these kinds of comments have become more and more frequent. It makes Kate’s stomach twist guiltily every time, knowing it’s the result of the constant comparison between them from other adults.

“Nonsense,” Agatha scolds. “You’re a beautiful child no matter what’s on your body. And you will be beautiful in that gown if you would hold still for more than a moment at a time!”

“Sorry,” says Emily sheepishly, but a blush starts glowing on her cheeks.

The dress Marak picked out for Emily is precious – a dark green velvet that matches well with her dark hair, with enough flounces to add dramatic flair every time she spun around.

“Oh Em!” Kate gasps. “You’re  _ adorable _ .”

“Sit  _ down _ , child,” grumbles Agatha, steering Emily to the vanity seat.

Emily runs her hands over the velvet on her abdomen as she sits down. “You think so?”

“Absolutely.”

Her sister coasts on the happiness of that compliment long enough for Agatha to curl her hair, using magic and a stone cylinder. She finishes it off with a green ribbon bow and lets Emily twirl around in front of the mirror, eyes shining.

“Alright, it’s your turn!” she says, turning to Kate.

For nearly an hour, Emily flits around the room like a fairy, asking Agatha a hundred questions about the make up she paints on Kate’s face, the sprigs of holly she places artfully like a crown in Kate’s hair, or the flower braid she remakes.

“How come I didn’t get any holly sprigs?” Emily asks, rather petulantly.

“Because they won’t last five minutes with the way you’re jumping and twirling about,” says Agatha, “and the ball hasn’t even started yet.”

“Fair point,” she admits.

When Agatha finally gets done with her, Emily gasps as Kate stands up and stretches her neck.

“Oh, Kate, you look like a princess!” Emily’s highest compliment.

“She looks like a queen,” Agatha corrects smugly. “And this time I know Marak won’t miss it.”

“Is everyone ready?” Marak’s voice calls out from beyond the dressing room. “It would be a shame if the ball started without you.”

Emily gasps and takes off running, her slipping skidding slightly on the floor. Kate walks calmly behind her, feeling rather queenly for the first time. Marak and Seylin hover by the door to the bedroom, both dressed in dash black velvet and satin.

Seylin looks almost unreal, like a doll – Kate rarely sees his goblin form and his beauty still shocks every time but his eyes grow wide as saucers at the sight of Emily.

“You look like a princess,” he says to her and Kate fights a smile.

“She’s the sister of the King’s Wife” says Marak, grinning. “She  _ is _ a princess.”

Kate could kiss him for that comment alone and the way it makes unbridled joy bloom on her sister’s face. Seylin bows before offering Emily his hand. “Shall we?”

Emily takes a deep breath, schooling all excitement from her expression, before giving him the tips of her fingers.

“We shall,” she says haughtily.

They walk very soberly until they get out of sight in the hallway – then Kate hears the pounding of their footsteps as they rush to the throne room.

“I think you made her whole evening with that comment,” she says to Marak.

He shrugs, eyes glittering. “It was just a simple truth. Are you ready to be amazed?”

“You can certainly try.” She places her hand in the crook of his arm and allows herself to be escorted.

Nothing in the ceaseless gossip about the ball could have prepared her for the sight she beheld in the throne room.

“ _ Oh _ !” she gasps.

First of all, it looks like a completely different space. The throne is gone – in its place a tree several stories high and festooned with ribbons of gold and green and red and covered in twinkling mage lights. Magic snow falls from the ceiling before dissolving mid air before it reached the floors. The strains of Christmas carols drift over the rumble of conversation. Every Goblin is dressed in the kind of jaw-dropping finery that would put the Queen herself to shame.

It looks like something straight out of a fairy tale.

“Are you impressed?” Marak asks, the telltale smirk haunting the corner of his mouth.

“It’s unbelievable,” she says. “Like a dream.”

“Trust me, the work was very real.”

Couples dance all around the great tree – she catches sight of Emily and Seylin, already twirling and jumping about – while others cluster around the edges, talking and laughing. Thaydar’s distinctive, booming laughter echoes from one such cluster and Marak leads Kate over to him.

“Kate! You look absolutely breathtaking!” he booms, taking Kate’s hand and pressing a kiss to it.

“Thank you,” she says, eyeing the deep purple suit that somehow does not clash with the color of his fur. “You look very dashing yourself.”

Hulk (or is it Bulk? She still can’t tell them apart) appears silently beside her, holding up a tray of wine glasses. Marak plucks two glasses and offers her one. Kate takes it rather hesitantly – the last time she had wine had been at her father’s birthday dinner.

_ I am a grown, married woman _ she reminds herself, even though it doesn’t often feel like it, especially now, surrounded by so many people so clearly older and more experienced than her. Even if Goblins didn’t age like humans, Kate still feels so painfully young by comparison.

Thaydar and several other of Marak’s close advisors and wives take pains to include her in conversation and it gives her an excellent opportunity to practice her Goblin. Even so, it’s times like these Kate wonders if Emily would have been better off in her position. Until Hugh Roberts, her sister never met a person she couldn’t befriend.

Marak has that same confidence around people, effortlessly contributing to the conversation no matter the topic, listening just as often, making his subjects feel acknowledged and important. She prefers to watch him rather than contribute herself, the ease with which he interacts with these people he’s undoubtedly known most of his life. 

As if sensing her growing disquiet, Marak rests his hand warmly on her lower back.

“Thaydar, as much as I love discussing the idiocy of human architecture, I do believe I owe my wife a dance or two.”

“Of course!” Thaydar booms. “Forgive me, Kate. This is your first goblin ball. I would hate to deprive you of the dancing. Perhaps you could save me a dance of my own, if Marak can keep his hands off you.”

_ Keep his hands off her – _ the memory of those hands the morning after he returned from London --

“O-of course.” she stammers, blushing.

Marak steers her towards the dancing side of the room before she can embarrass herself further.

“Alright, Kate, just like we practiced,” he says, taking her hand in his and resting his other on her waist. “Lucky for you, this song is slow and I wore reinforced boots.”

She gives him a half hearted glare and he grins winningly at her until a smile twitches on her face. It is lucky for her that the song is slow – it allows her to relax and take in the general splendor of the room. And if she trods on Marak’s foot – it’s on purpose.

“So this is what the trip to London was about?” she says as they glide across the room.

“Yes. There’s a shop my father ordered decorations from all his years with my mother. And then, of course, I had to get the tree.”

Kate sneaks another glance at it towering massive form over his shoulder. “I’ve heard decorating garlands or branches, but never a whole tree.”

“It was my mother’s idea. She wanted a great centerpiece for the ball and garlands just didn’t cut it for her. So she thought if people decorated parts of a tree, why not just drag the whole tree in here?”

“It’s breathtaking” she says. “Your mother was very creative.”

“She made beautiful things,” he agrees wistfully.

“Like you.”

Marak stumbles, just for a split second, but Kate notices and gives him a smirk of her own.

“Look at you – a few sips of wine and you’re becoming quite the silver tongue,” he says. 

She knows him well enough now to recognize when he teases her as misdirection.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. “A lady is always complimentary.”

“What does that say about you when you’ve insulted me so much?”

He grins and spins her abruptly to forestall the glare flashing in her eyes.

Kate dances until her feet aches and feasts until her stomach aches and laughs until her sides ache. It's the first evening where gaiety preoccupied so much of her mind it left no room to miss the stars or snow or comfortingly familiar human faces. Ironically, it was the best Christmas she’s ever had, despite being surrounded by non-Christians. 

When they finally head upstairs to bed, the sun has started to set and Kate’s head feels floaty and dreamy and she can’t stop smiling, as they head upstairs. After she stumbles for the third time – her feet keep catching on the edge of the steps, a problem she’s never had before – Marak swoops down and picks her up, as easily as if she were a sack of sugar.

“I do believe you are rather drunk, my darling wife,” he says.

“I am not!” she cries, indignant. “I am a woman of class and standards.”

“Yes and you had two glasses of wine.”

“It was watered down!”

Marak cackles. “As if goblins water down their wine. No, sweet Kate, you got a little more than you bargained for.”

No wonder the room had been spinning long after Marak stopped dancing with her. “Perhaps I may be a little . . .floaty. But I am not  _ drunk _ .”

“A compromise I will agree to. You’re still capable of arguing so I suppose you’re not too far gone.”

“And what about you?”

“It will take  _ much _ more than three glasses of champagne to take me down.”

Kate relaxes against his chest, her hand coming up to toy with one of the stray locks of hair that hangs down past his chin. Her eyes trace the hard line of his jaw, the wiry muscles of his neck. She can feel his heart beating underneath her ear.

He has been nothing but an absolute dream all evening, just the way she imagined he might if they had met at a ball the human way. Kate has the sudden urge to lean up and kiss the side of his throat and no reason not to do so.

Marak stumbles and lurches to the left.

“I thought you weren’t drunk,” says Kate, kissing a path up the side of his neck to his ear.

“I’m – not,” he groans. His fingers tighten their grip on her leg.“Kate, what are you doing?”

“I’m kissing my husband. Am I not allowed to do that?”

Her tongue darts out to taste him, just the tip of it, and he stumbles again, his fingers digging into her thigh.

“Of course you are, but if you want us to make it up the stairs alive, you’re going to have to stop.”

“I don’t want to stop.”

Perhaps the wine has gotten to her head more than she thought. But Kate feels nothing but smug satisfaction at the tight swallow of his Adam's apple as she kisses against the shell of his ear, using his shoulders to push herself up and reach it.

“You are going to pay for that,” he warns, his pace speeding up.

“Oh dear,” Kate deadpans. She experiments with her teeth, biting him gently beneath his earlobe and Marak lets out a  _ very _ inappropriate curse in Goblin.

Kate gets vicious satisfaction turning the tables on the entire rest of the trip to their bedroom. His muscles strain underneath her, his pulse throbbing in his neck. She brushes her lips over it before sucking down on it just the way he does to her.

“ _ Kate _ ,” he hisses and stops abruptly.

She blinks up at him. “Why are we stopping?”

“Because we are not making it to the bedroom,” he growls and sets her down on her feet.

“I beg your pardon?” He can’t possibly be implying –

Marak pushes her up against the stone wall next to a mosaic.

This floor contains the library and the workshop, the likelihood of being discovered or chanced upon very low. But still a bright tendril of fear sparks up when Marak holds her head and kisses her greedily. Despite her reservations, a breathy moan escapes her, echos against the stone. They get harder and harder to hold back as his nails scrape lightly down her neck and over her collarbone.

Kate digs her fingers into his velvet shirt and kisses him harder. This should not be happening here and yet she cannot stop herself. Marak tears his mouth from hers and a frustrated whine builds up in her throat that soon turns to gasping as he kisses a trail down her neck.

“Shhhh,” he whispers against her pulse. “You don’t want anyone to hear you, do you?”

Her heartbeat skyrockets at the thought of Seylin or Emily chancing upon them, perhaps after smuggling refreshments into the library when they should have been in bed. Yet when Marak scrapes his teeth over her pulse in the exact way she did to him, another hitched breath escapes her bitten lips.

He chuckles darkly against her throat, skimming his hands down over her breasts, a moan strangling in her throat. The dress is cut low enough that it takes very little effort for him to dip his thumb beneath the fabric and scrape his nail over her nipple.

A sharp jolt of pure desire zings down her spine, her core suddenly throbbing.

“Bedroom –” she gasps.

“If you wanted to do this in the bedroom you should have waited until then to kiss me,” he says. He presses open mouthed kisses down her clavicle and over the fabric of her dress and she can feel the heat of them on her breast even though the layers of linen and velvet.

His hand snakes down and starts pulling up the hem of her dress and petticoat and Kate panics. Her hands grip his shoulder.

“ _ Marak _ ,” she hisses. “We can’t – not  _ here _ .”

He chuckles darkly against her chest. “Oh, Kate, we certainly can.”

She squirms and he holds her down by her hip, the cold stone leaking to her flushed skin.

Slowly Marak lowers himself to his knees, looking up at her with dark, predatory eyes. He lifts up her hem, past her calves, past her knees, past her  _ hips  _ until the fabric bunches at her waist. Cold air hits her, reminding her how deeply exposed she is right now.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

He grins and presses a light kiss on her knee.

“Remember, Kate. You brought this on yourself.”

Brought  _ what _ on? Trepidation and anticipation mix into a heady thrill as he peppers kisses slowly up her leg until he reaches her hip bone.

“I’ve been wondering what you taste like,” he says, tongue darting out to lick her skin. “I’ve thought about it all evening. You are stunning in red, Kate. I could barely keep up enough focus for conversation.”

She can only watch, stunned with held breath, as he ghosts his lips across her abdomen until his breath whispers hotly over her aching center.

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop,” he murmurs, giving her a pointed look.

Surely he doesn’t mean to --

Perhaps it’s the wine, perhaps it's the desire thundering in her ears, but Kate doesn’t dare tell him to stop him. She holds her breath, waiting to see if it’s going to where she thinks it might. He presses his mouth over top of her and she gasps loud enough to echo down the hallway.

It's like nothing she has ever felt before. His tongue, wet and hot, presses against her bundle of nerves and it’s the perfect amount of pressure. In moments Marak has her bucking against him, her hand cupped tightly against her mouth to keep from crying out as pleasure arcs through her. He sucks on that little cluster and her hips lurch forward so abruptly that Marak has to hold her hip down to keep her balance.

It takes very little time before she’s rocking against him, eyes shut tight and close to shattering. Marak pulls away and a desperate whine escapes at the loss of him.

“Look at me, Kate,” he commands. “Look at me.”

She gazes down at him, flushing instantly at such an obscene sight. He has that dark, hungry look in his eyes, like he wants to devour her –

_ And he is. _

Never breaking eye contact, her husband slides a finger into her slick entrance and presses the flat of his tongue against her.

That’s all it takes to send her over the edge, trembling as he laps her through the aftershocks until she has to pull his mouth away from her by the back of his ponytail.

Marak stands up, smirking at her while wiping his mouth – wiping  _ her _ from his mouth – and such a thought brings another full body flush to her already burning ears. The hem of her dress slips back to the floor, erasing any evidence of their tryst.

He places a warm hand over her wildly beating heart.

“Are you alright, Kate? You seem out of breath.”

“I – where did you –  _ learn that _ ?” she demands.

The corner of his mouth tugs up. “Like all proper things, I read it in a book.”

“You did  _ not _ .”

He holds out his arm to her, a perfect gentleman, as if he hadn’t engaged in the most obscene behavior beyond what Kate could possibly conceive.

“I did,” he says as she takes his arm. “There’s a whole book just how previous Kings have pleased their Wives.”

Her legs are still rather wobbly but their rooms lay only one staircase ahead. Kate gives him a flat look at what little distance remained for them to engage in . . .activities in the proper place. Marak just grins at her wickedly.

“What wisdom did your mother’s section impart?” she asks archly, watching in satisfaction the smirk slip from his face.

“I skipped that section, thank you.”

The sight of their bed imparts great relief in her. She wants to crawl her floaty body and aching feet under the bed clothes and sleep for a hundred years, but Marak tugs her towards the dressing room. 

With a sigh, she stands obediently still and allows him to unbutton her gown. After an evening of music and the thundering footsteps of dance and ringing laughter, the quiet that stretches between them now feels strangely intimate. As such, once he finishes the buttons, Kate finds herself turning out and holding out her arms.

He raises an eyebrow. She meets his gaze steadily until he reaches out and slips the outer dress up over her arms and shoulders. Fondness overwhelms her, warm and sudden.

“I wanted to thank you for this evening,” she tells him as he drapes the gown over the chair. “I didn’t know you were such a wonderful dancer.”

Marak gives her a soft smile. “My parents loved to dance. Honestly, I think my father started Christmas parties as another excuse for it.”

He turns away and pulls out one of her nightgowns from the chest of drawers, laying it over top her dress on the chair. By now he has usually slipped away, allowing her to change in privacy. But tonight, her proper sensibilities hazy with wine, she holds her arms out for him to continue.

Marak gazes at her with a silent question. Kate meets his stare with calm determination. After what happened in the hallway, she could hardly feel shy now.

Still, her heart pounds as Marak strips her slowly of her petticoat.

“You’re just as graceful a dancer as I imagined,” he says softly, pulling it over her head.

“You imagine me?”

“All the time.”

Slowly, as if giving her time to refuse, Marak pulls the linen shift – the last scrap of clothing that remains between them – up over her hips . . .her breasts . . her shoulders . . .and over her head. Despite the cold air, her body stays flushed and hot. Her husband's eyes slowly travel down the length of her body, his gaze sharpened by that same hunger she saw in the hallway.

A shiver thrums its way down her spine. Kate thinks, as his hand whispers above her collar bone, that if he wanted to consummate their marriage, right here in this dressing room, she wouldn’t mind.

But then he steps back and takes her nightgown from the chair. Kate obediently holds her arms above her head. She doesn’t miss the way his gaze darts down her breasts before the nightgown floats down her arms and settles over her body.

“Marak?” Her voice comes out barely a whisper. She’s asking by not asking.

Marak swallows, hard, before stepping back.

“Let's get you into bed,” he says finally. “You must be exhausted.”

Usually, when her husband denies himself his marriage rights, the relief outweighs her disappointment.

But not tonight.

In fact, as she crawls underneath the covers and watches him disappear into his own dressing room to divest himself of his formal wear, Kate thinks she might actually swallow her embarrassment down and try to . . . _ initiate _ it herself.

After all, it took very little effort to break him down in the hallway. By now it would probably take even less for Marak to loosen his tight grip on his control.

But when he returns to bed, dressed in his own sleep clothes, Kate has slipped into a deep, fast slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try like hell to get all the typos, but if you see any, please feel free to point them out!


	12. In Which Kate Takes Initiative

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone still hanging in there and to all my new readers! This story will never be abandoned, no matter how slow I am! I live for your kudos and comments, thank you all so much. Happy New Year!

It took Kate less time than she expected to become accustomed to her husband's ghoulish appearance. Now it hardly fazes her -- except for his hair. It never ceases to irritate her, and Marak's cavalier attitude towards it only worsens her hatred.

Like now, for instance. He's bent over the workroom table while she's translating a Goblin fairytale into English. He keeps shoving his hair back with sighs of increasing irritation, but it slips out of the flimsy knot he hurriedly tied it in before getting started.

"Marak. Stop."

He looks up at her, pausing in his work. "What?"

"Just --" Kate groans in irritation. "I can't deal with it any longer. Come over here, please."

Looking amused, Marak obeys and stops at the corner of the desk.

Kate slips off the stool and motions for him to sit. He obliges and his level of cooperation makes her suspicious. Marak never wastes an opportunity to find something to tease her about.

"Your hair is ridiculous," she says, pulling out the ribbon. Instantly the rest of his hair slides -- almost magically -- into his face. "Is it enchanted to have a mind of its own?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps I like seeing you get irritated by it."

Kate snorts. Typical, that he would do this on purpose. She combs her fingers through it, not taking pains to be particularly gentle about it, and smirking to herself when Marak flinches ever so slightly when her fingers snag.

But he allows her to continue without complaint.

"You should cut it short," she mutters, separating the hair into three sections as evenly as she could.

"I will -- after you cut yours. We could have matching couples haircuts."

Kate starts weaving the three pieces into a braid. The hair slips ever so often from between her fingers, making the process even more infuriating. But she refuses to give up.

"Perhaps I will. Perhaps both of us can go to court bald."

"You wouldn't,” says Marak, utterly confident in his answer.

"Spite can be a powerful motivator," she says. It irritates her that he's right.

"That is the most Goblin thing I've ever heard you say," says Marak happily.

Kate tugs sharply on his hair. Backed into a corner, now she faces the choice of going back on her threats or accepting his backhanded compliment. So she chooses to keep her mouth shut instead and finishes the braid, making sure to triple knot the ribbon on the end.

"There," she says. "It'll probably only hold for about five minutes, but that's five minutes of peace that I happily accept."

Marak delicately runs his fingers through the braid.

"Thank you, Wife," he says, standing up. "I'm sure that gave you immense satisfaction."

He turns to face her and to Kate's dismay, one lock of his hair has slipped from the braid to hang near his ear.

She  _ refuses  _ to be angered by it.

"You're welcome," she says before returning back to her seat and her book.

Marak wears the braid until bed and he says nothing to her as it gradually frays and dissolves throughout the day.

It's the last time she ever fights it.

In the two weeks since Christmas, her scandalous dreams have only increased. Tonight she jolts awake from another one, heart thudding heavily in her chest. 

By now she has grown used to them, and accepted the feelings they inspire, even though she will keep the details to herself until the grave. Even so, the dreams are more often than not an unpleasant experience, if only for the wretched frustration they inspire while she lies awake, trying to calm her racing heart and the itch of desire under her skin while her husband sleeps peacefully beside her.

The dreams, if anything, haven gotten  _ worse  _ since Marak started . . .touching her. Before, they relied only on her vague imagination, but now . . .now her mind knows exactly what it feels like to have his hands and his mouth on her and when she wakes up aching and wanting, she knows exactly what she's missing.

If she had no standards or decorum, Kate would be sorely tempted to stir Marak awake and demand he fix it, in the way only he can . . . .Actually, if she had no standards or decorum, she would fix the problem herself.

A sinful action, if her governess was to be believed. A woman's body was for her husband and for God, not to satisfy the whims of her own pleasure. And yet she knows Marak would loudly disapprove of such a notion.

And if her husband approved of her satisfying her own pleasure, then would she not be doing as she's told?

The way her body throbs makes it rather difficult to care about the leaps of logic it would take to absolve her of sin. What does Emily say? Ask forgiveness, not permission? And is not God a loving, forgiving God?

Hardly daring at her own audacity, Kate slips her hand under the blankets and the hem of her nightgown. Her fingers skate over her thighs to brush over the bundle of nerves that ache for attention. The resulting spark of pleasure feels dull compared to Marak's touch, but her body surges in response.

_ By the Fathers, Kate, you're wet _ .

She always wondered what that felt like for him. Dipping her fingers experimentally between her folds, she's surprised at how slick her skin feels, how feverishly hot. It makes the slide of her finger into her entrance remarkably easy, startling a sharp gasp from her chest.

It’s not the same but it still feels remarkable, easing that strange craving to be filled. Kate eases her finger in and out, biting her lip to keep from crying out. She tries brushing her thumb against the spot that makes her body sing, but the angle of her wrist makes it rather difficult. Still, she does her best, rubbing her thumb gently across it -- it gets remarkably sensitive! -- while sliding her finger inside her and she feels obscene and glorious.

Pleasure builds, slowly and erratically, darting away when she thinks it's in her reach. It's enough to make her whimper in frustration, feeling betrayed by her own body. It takes much less time when Marak touches her for the pleasure to burst and crest over her.

"Kate? Are you alright?"

Her husband's voice, rough with sleep, hits her like an arrow. She jerks her hand away from herself, heart thundering in her chest.

"Yes," she says, her voice almost cracking. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You were making a strange noise."

Would it be inappropriate and sinful to pray that Marak goes back to sleep without catching on?

"I had a dream," she says.

The sheets rustle as he shifts closer to her, the warmth of his chest bleeding into his back. His hand rests lightly on her hip, over the covers.

"What kind of dream?" His voice rumbles close to her ear, making her shiver at the memory of that late morning after his return from London.

"I've forgotten already," she lies, swallowing, her mouth dry.

"I think I can take a guess," he says and she doesn't have to see his face to know he's smirking.

His hand slips underneath the sheets to trail lightly over her thigh, tracing the hem of her nightgown where she rucked it up to her waist.

" _ Katherine _ ," he gasps against her ear in mock scandal. "What have we been doing?"

" _ Nothing _ ," she hisses. "I don't know what you're implying."

"I beg to differ," he says. His fingers brush across her thigh to trace the slit of her folds. By now the evidence of her arousal is smeared all around her inner thighs, her skin tingling at the barest hint of his touch.

"You sweet little liar," he croons, pressing a kiss on the shell of her ear. "Did you try to take care of this yourself? Why didn't you wake me?"

"Wake you for  _ this _ ?" she scoffs, too late realizing the trap he set for her.

"As if I don't love every opportunity to turn you into a writhing, whimpering mess in my hands," he says. "Tell me, did you finish?"

"I --" A wave of shame hits her -- her pleasure belongs to him and it almost feels like stealing, taking the opportunity away from him. "No. I'm -- I'm sorry, I shouldn't have --"

"Why not? It's as natural as any other bodily function," he says. "Kate. . . was this your first time?"

She nods her head, eyes closed tight. "It's better when you do it," she admits, a peace offering.

"There's no reason for shame," he tells her softly. "But I'm not surprised you didn't get anywhere, without any practice. Shall I show you how it's done?"

She licks her lips. "What do you mean?"

He takes her hand in his, her fingers still sticky with her own fluid, and drags it down between her thighs. Manipulating her hand -- his pointer finger resting over her own -- he starts to circle their fingers over the little bundle of nerves that had so frustrated her earlier.

Kate gasps, her pleasure sparking back to life. Marak chuckles before pressing light kisses down her jawline until their lips meet. The kiss turns hungry and desperate in very little time, his tongue sliding in her mouth as he works their fingers over her slit, teasing at her entrance.

  
  


A moan tears from her throat. Her hips buck up against their hands, and she longs to mold her body to his. Marak tears his mouth away from hers, ignoring her whine of frustration, to nip back to her ear.

"Tell me about your dream," he whispers.

"What?"

"Your dream. The one that keeps waking you up? What do I do to you?"

"I'm not telling you that!" she gasps.

He pulls their hands away from her center, locking her fingers on her thigh as she instinctively fights to return them.

"Tell me, Kate, and I'll touch you."

Desire has clouded her mind -- it's hard to think straight, to keep her own promises.

"Come on," he coaxes, drawing lazy swirls into her thigh with her own finger.

"I -- it's at night," she admits, face flaming. But,  _ oh _ , she wants to be touched. "I'm running from you in the forest, just -- just like that night I tricked Agatha into letting me go."

He drags their fingers down the length of her center. "Good girl. And then?"

"I run to the -- the truce circle," she continues, fighting to concentrate as he slowly traces the edge of her folds. "You follow me. It's -- storming. I back up against -- a tree. There's no other place -- to go."

Pleasure bursts, bright like star, as he cups the heel of her palm against that special spot and presses down. Kate moans, burying her head against the crook of her arm.

"What do I do next?" he asks.

Their fingers swirl at her entrance.

"You have me trapped," she says raggedly. "I tell you that you can't hurt me here but -- but you don't want to hurt me."

"And what do I want, Kate?"

"To kiss me." Her voice is a whisper, more gasp than words, as he slides their fingers into her, unimpeded. Her body welcomes them, needy and aching. "To -- to have me. Like this.  _ Oh _ , Marak."

"Do I touch you like this?" he asks.

She nods. "You kiss me -- everywhere. You pull my dress up. You -- your fingers -- they --"

"Do this?" he asks, pumping them in and out of her body. She can feel herself spasm and flutter against her own finger.

"And you let me?"

"I --" she moans through bitten lips. "I don't have a choice. I can't -- I can't get away."

"That doesn't frighten you?"

She turns to look at him, as best she can in the dim glow of the lake through the balcony doors. His eyes are deep set shadows in his darkened face and she can't tell their expression. But she knows Marak can see every nuance of hers.

"Not anymore."

He stares at her, stunned, his fingers unmoving in her aching core. Desire clouds her mind, driving away all rational thought. . She doesn't think any longer-- she just follows her body's instincts and acts.

With a hiss she pulls her hand and his from her body before twisting to face him and kissing him with fierce hunger. All those times she made him lose control and now their roles have flipped. This time Marak squeaks in surprise as Kate climbs on top of his body, all the breath leaving him at once when she rolls her hips against his until she feels the hard length of him pressed up against her cluster. She clutches at him as if drowning, her hands grabbing fistfuls of his sleep tunic by his shoulders.

"Kate --" he gasps, bewildered, and she shoves her tongue in his mouth to shut him up.

His fingers dig themselves into her sleep braid, the other hand gripping her hip, pushing their bodies closer together.

She rolls her hips again, savoring the deep groan that inspires and together they manage to find a rhythm that drives her closer to the edge of madness. Relishing this position of control, Kate kisses and bites her way up his neck, closing her teeth around the folded tip of his ear.

" _ By the Fathers _ ," he hisses in Goblin. " _ You are going to kill me." _

_ " _ Good," she says against the hinge of his jaw.

So many times he has had her at his mercy, pressed against desks and tables and walls, shocking her out of her sensibilities. Now, more than anything, she wants  _ him _ to be the writhing, whimpering mess under her. It's this desire to see him unmade that drives her to drag her nightgown over her head and fling off the bed.

Marak's breath stutters in his chest.

The hand he buried in her hair travels erratically over her shoulder and down to her breast, pinching at her nipple and sending a sharp jolt of lust straight to the center of her.

"Take what you need, Kate," he says, almost reverently.

She rubs and bucks herself against him, like a barn cat in heat, and it should be utterly shameful but Kate is too far gone to care. The crest of her pleasure feels just outside her reach and she chases after it, face pressed into the crook of his neck, until it washes over her. Sobs of relief and ecstasy echo around her. Marak's arms clench tight around her and he groans, stuttering, by her ear.

For a long moment they lie there, their panting echoing off the stone walls.

“Oh Kate,” he murmurs against her ear. “You make a King want to utter obscenities.”

“Is that a good thing?” she asks hesitantly into his neck.

His hand strokes through her hair. “Yes. Yes it is.”

She expects the mortification of her own audacity to set in as they lie there, and yet it only echoes faintly in the back of her mind. Instead, only the aching curiosity for more lingers. If this is what the marriage bed could feel like, then what did her governess fear so much? Or perhaps it was to scare Kate away, before she could get the urge to explore it before marriage.

“My darling Wife, you are going to let me up,” groans Marak beneath her.

“Am I getting heavy?”

He chuckles. “Not in a hundred years, sweet Kate. But I have to clean myself up before it gets any worse.”

“ . . .clean yourself up?”

His hands grab her gently by the waist and push her off onto her side of the bed before he climbs out of the bed. Then he bends down and gives her a sweet kiss on her lips.

“You’re not the only one who enjoyed themselves,” he says obscurely before stalking off towards the washroom.

It takes her a few moments to get his meaning. She remembers the sound he made just after she – so then he must have --

“ . . .  _ Oh _ .”

Face flaming, Kate fights off a smile.

  
  
  
  


Kate settles in her favorite couch in the library. Marak has gone to court, she has no class this morning and three hours of uninterrupted reading time stretches before her. Even so, her gaze darts around and her ears strain for footsteps for a moment before she opens the book in her lap.

She feels like a criminal.

Which is ridiculous; it’s just a  _ book _ .

But it’s a book her father banned from the house and just the mere word of it and he  _ loved _ literature. When she slipped the title in her next list of books she wanted, she half expected Marak to cross it out or make a fuss. But he barely skimmed over it and it arrived yesterday in a crate from London, sitting innocently among the others. Marak didn’t even spare it a glance.

Still. She takes no precautions. Not necessarily because she thinks Marak will ban it – he’s never denied her access to any information, even if he knew she would hurt over it.

But if he ever found out how outrageous this book is. . .she’d never live it down. Not to mention how embarrassing she feels at wanting to read it in the first place. It’s not a book fit for someone of her sensibilities.

And who knows – maybe after fighting off kidnapping from her own husband, having her sister kidnapped by her cousin so he could lock Kate away in an insane asylum, the events of this book will prove boring in comparison and she won’t bother to finish it.

Kate should not have underestimated Mrs. Radcliffe. The story she wrote is outrageous and nigh unbelievable (if one doesn’t think too hard about the Goblin kingdom she has found herself in by comparison) and yet it compels her to keep turning the page.

In the solitude of the library she forgets herself, reverting back to her childhood habit of talking to the book as if the characters could hear and understand her. It comes out at first in whispers but soon her voice grows loud enough to almost echo off the walls without her even realizing it.

“No!  _ No _ you  _ didn’t!”  _ she groans at one part.

“I’m afraid they did,” says a voice quite clearly to her left. “The  _ scandal _ .”

Kate screams, the book flinging from her hands to land gracelessly onto the floor. Marak laughs helplessly against the door frame, his voice ringing against the walls.

“How long have you been standing there?” Kate demands, an embarrassed flush glowing from her throat to her ears.

“Oh long enough, I assure you.” He says with a grin. “Just what exactly are you reading?”

“Nothing!” she shouts, the word slipping out.

It’s exactly the wrong thing to say. Marak eyes gleam and he takes quick strides across the floor to grab the book. Kate dives off the couch for it but he snatches it out just before her fingers can reach it.

“ _ The Mysterious of Udolpho _ ,” he says, thumbing the cover. “Interesting. What a plain looking book and yet you’re so utterly scandalized. Just what exactly is this novel about?”

“Nothing!” Kate cries again, trying to snatch it, but Marak holds it high above her reach. “It’s about a girl and she – there’s an evil uncle and –“

She’s too flustered to speak clearly, which only embarrasses her further.

“Oh? An evil uncle? No wonder you’re so captivated. Any other parallels to your life? Men in dark hoods chasing after innocent and beautiful young girls?”

“Marak – please,” she says rather desperately, “Give me back my book.  _ Please _ .”

He looks at her, eyes narrowed in scrutiny, before his features soften.

“Your face is bright red. Kate, have I upset you?”

He lowers his arm and allows her to snatch the book back into her hands, pressing it close to her chest.

“No,” she lies, trying to keep a shred of dignity.

He gives her a rather stern look, one eyebrow raised in flat disbelief, and she falters in the face of his disapproval.

“It’s just – this book had a rather scandalous reputation when it was first published and my father refused to let me read it because of it. I suppose I still feel like I should not be allowed to have it.”

“You’re a grown, married woman, Kate,” says Marak, not unkindly. “You can read whatever you want. I’m certainly not going to object.”

“Yes, I know that. It just doesn’t feel that way sometimes. I  _ am  _ a married woman; I should have outgrown the childish curiosity for such stories.”

“Oh Kate,” says Marak, gently cupping her face. “My mother never let growing older, becoming a wife, or even having a child dampen her spirits and her sense of fun and neither should you.”

She gives him a small, grateful smile. “I’ll work on it.”

“And perhaps I will give this scandalous novel a try for myself when you’re finished.”

Kate feels herself blushing again. “You really don’t have to.”

“Oh I must,” says Marak with a grin. “My curiosity has been piqued. It needs satisfying.”

Kate finds, to her utter delight, that her habit of  _ loud reading _ is not exclusive to her. Every other book Marak has read with stone faced focus, but this book inspires greater reactions. He reads it in the library, propped up in his favorite armchair, while she reads on the couch. She can tell by the expression on his face, the muttering under his breath and exclamations of shock and outrage, exactly what chapter he’s on.

“This Morano is an amateur,” he remarks, looking over at her. “That’s the most ridiculous attempt of kidnapping I’ve ever heard of. No wonder you enjoyed this novel so much; you get to relive some of your favorite memories of us.”

“If you thought that was ridiculous, you will have to contain your shock for later,” says Kate nonchalantly.

“What happens later?” he asks immediately.

“As if I’m telling you! You’ll have to keep reading.”

“Such cruelty! I may have to extract my revenge for it tonight.”

A flash of memory of him underneath her just a scant few nights ago flares up and she shakes it loose, cheeks burning.

“Oh dear,” she says in exaggerated nonchalance but her heart pounds in her chest regardless.

Judging by the smirk on Marak’s face, he knows.


End file.
